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"You bastard!" I call Rick, having just slapped me, in yet another bout of his violent temper, and all because I failed to iron his shirt the way he likes it. "Can't you get anything right? Either shape up, or get out," he vehemently tells me. "Oh, so you can have one of your whores move in," I exclaim. This time when he strikes me I fall against the cabinet, my forehead knocking against the doors brass knob. "I want this place clean, tidy, and spotless, and a hot meal cooked, not put on the back burner to simmer and go dry, for when I get home from work at around 7pm, after which, you'll make yourself nice and available for sex, something we haven't done in a good few weeks. You're supposed to be my wife, remember; for better or worse," he tells me. As if I need reminding about the ‘worse' bit. Thank God; or more to the point, my careful use of contraception; we don't have children to witness his violence towards me. Not like Malcolm, my next door neighbour, who's always got a pleasant smile for me whenever we run into one another; lifting my otherwise down, or crushed spirit. Leaving me upset and crying, I slump on the sofa and let the tears and my unhappiness take over. Then, and when I'm almost all cried out, there's a knock on the front door.

Wiping my eyes on the sleeve of my nightgown; I was still in my bedclothes, I called out: "who is it?" As I got up to answer it, saying: "hold on, I'm just coming." Looking at myself in the mirror, to tidy up more than anything, I notice a dark, purple and blue, bruise, where I hit the cupboard earlier. Upon opening the door, I see Malcolm ...

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