The Broken & The Punisher

Chapter 1. Free ?

Richard’s sour smell drifted into Mary’s nostrils, and she fought the urge to crinkle her nose from disgust. After six years of her marriage to this man, he still managed to repulse her in the most disgusting way.

“Rose.”

Not her name but one given by him. Another one of the things that Mary hated about him

She glanced down at her husband and shook away her thoughts before handing him his routine alcohol, a glass of gin, and tonic.

“My apologies,” She said before perching on the couch opposite his chair.

She stared over his left shoulder at the ten-thousand dollars painting that he had bought last year at a gallery opening. It wasn’t all that great to look at, in her words, “it was ugly as sin,” but at least it allowed her to ignore that creepy face of her husband while he stared at her in an animalistic way, raking his eyes all over her body. ‘Gross.’

She knew better than to think it was admiration or even lust that shone in those dark eyes that she refused to meet. Because she knew what he was doing, he was searching for a flaw, no matter how small or insignificant. A stray hair, a wrinkle in her dress, a hunch of her shoulders. If it were there, he’d have found it. But she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

“You look beautiful this evening,” he said, bringing the glass to his dry lips.

And she wanted to poison that drink. When she’d made it, she would often have visions of watching it slip from his grasp and staining the Loui XV sofa. The ice would clink, but she wouldn’t hear it. Her focus would be on Richard’s breathing and the choking sounds that would bubble from his throat.

But she hadn’t poisoned it. ‘I wish I did.’ she thought.

Most ingestible poisons could be found in an autopsy if one were looking for it, and Richard’s children would demand it, without a doubt. They were in their late twenties, both older than Mary’s twenty-four years. ‘The young trophy wife killing her older husband for his money’ wasn’t a new concept, and with Richard’s son and daughter’s hatred of her, it would never slip their minds.

“Thank you,” She said, too late. She had been so busy imagining his death, she had forgotten he had complimented her. Or at least to the outside world, it would’ve seemed like a compliment. To her, it was a relief, confirmation that she had done something right.

“You’re welcome, Rose.”

She just made the mistake of moving her gaze to his face for a moment before returning to stare just behind him. He was smirking. Something had flickered in his dark eyes, and whatever he had planned, it wouldn’t be good. Not for her.

Richard lifted his wrist to glance at his watch. “We still have twenty minutes before dinner. How shall we spend the time?”

He was baiting her and she knew it. He didn’t care what she wanted, and he never had. She wasn’t foolish enough to answer the rhetorical question so, she remained silent. He stood and made his way to the vintage record player and put on a song from the seventies that she couldn’t remember the name of.

“You like this one, don’t you?” he asked as if she cared. As if they ever danced and listened to music before dinner on a regular basis.

“I do,” she said, standing up. She expected him to step up to her, and put one hand on her waist while the other threaded through her fingers. All an act to get her to put down her guard until he could find a reason to punish her.

Instead, he sat on his throne and spread his knees wide before settling into the chair.

“Dance for me.”

Confusion covered her features, but only for a brief moment before she understood his meaning. She forced herself to look into his eyes, and she focused on the evil that hid underneath. She didn’t look away this time because, after six miserable years, she was no longer afraid. Not of him.

She slowly swayed her hips as she sauntered up to his chair, stopping just out of his reach. “You’d like me to dance for you?” She asked, tilting her head.

His brows furrowed at the sound of her dry voice, but he nodded.

What did he expect from her? For her cheeks to blush? For her throat to ripple with her swallow?

‘I am a twenty-four-year-old w***e to a man twice my age. There was no innocence or meekness left.’ She scoffed inwardly.

He had already stolen those things. No more shy smiles or genuine whimpers. She faked those responses because it pacified him, but she wouldn’t be faking them tonight.

She parted her lips and leaned her head back as she rolled her hips to the beat of the song. Her fingertips trailed the length of her dress from the hem to her waist, to the V that exposed a generous amount of cleavage. She traced the edge of the lacy material and arched her spine, poking her breasts out for her husband’s hungry gaze, but it wasn’t the part she knew he wanted to see. With a smirk, she reached her hand behind her back and tugged at the zipper, all the while not looking away from the face of depravity, disgusted.

“Is this what you wanted?” The dress slid off her shoulders and to the floor.

She had stopped moving to the rhythm, and neither of them seemed to notice as the song started to replay. Richard’s eyes roamed her flesh, pausing at each blotch of color and scar. The bruises were different in color, from dark purple to yellow with their various stages of healing. Most were in the shape of her husband’s fist, and some matched the soles of his leather shoes, but all were his doing.

One might expect to see remorse flash across his face. Maybe even shift in his seat with discomfort, anything to show his humanity. But not from Richard. Never from Richard. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and his pupils dilated to where his eyes were black enough to match his soul.

She dropped to her knees and crawled until she was between his legs. “Or maybe you want something else.”

He straightened and gripped her wrist when she went to reach for the button on his slacks. “What the fu*k are you doing?”

She grinned. His rage was almost palpable, and she wanted to reach out and grab it. Shove it in a bag and laugh at it in the years to come.

She rubbed the seam of his slacks where his flaccid c**k rested and wondered if it was the only part of him that didn’t receive the heated blood. The same blood that caused the vein in his forehead to throb.

“Would you like for me to get your pill, dear?”

She knew the hit was coming before his arm was even raised. The back of his hand connected with her cheek and whipped her head to the side. This was the part where she would force herself to cry. She would lie on the ground with her face in her hands and whimper while he screamed. He would remove his belt, and he would beat her until all that pent-up tension was gone. He couldn’t fu*k her, so this was his compensation, and it didn’t matter what it would cost her.

It was worse if she fought back, and even worse if she appeared unaffected. The best strategy was to cry, beg, apologize, and wait for it to be over.

Only that night she didn’t care.

She turned back to face him and dug her fingers into his legs before deepening the grin on her face. His eyes widened and this time he hit her with a closed fist, right in the mouth.

She fell backward and hit her head on the carpet. Her lip swelled and iron coated her tongue as she lay flat. It ached, but she barely registered the pain as a negative. It was a known companion of hers and held no strength over her resolve.

“Who the hell do you think you are? Huh?” He stood and worked to undo his belt. The tremble in his voice had laughter bubbling out of her. She wanted to laugh, loudly and manically. Blood oozed over her teeth and she spit onto the carpet, staining the pristine rug red.

She stared up at him and laughed harder when she spotted the uncertainty, the fear. He thought she was crazy, and maybe she was. In a way, this was the greatest day of her life, and she couldn’t keep the joy from erupting out of her.

Shut up!” He lifted the belt and brought it down on her midsection. An angry red strip spread across her belly, fitting in nicely with the other marks he had left.

belt in the air, confusion taking full control over the rage.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Beth, the cook, appeared before she got the chance to answer. Mary was naked, sitting on the floor with blood running down her chin, but Beth was hardly fazed. Richard’s depravity was known in this house. It was only the outside world he hid it from, and he hid Mary along with it. The only role she had within civilization was when a colleague would come to the house and she would have to play the obedient wife.

“Dinner is served, sir.” Beth’s back was straight and her long nose was pointed in the air. Mary always thought that Beth was as ugly on the outside as she was on the inside.

“Thank you, Beth,” Richard said in between deep breaths. He turned back to Mary as the cook left. “Have you learned your lesson?”

Mary wanted to scowl, but instead, she peered down at the floor and nodded. She noted the hesitation in his voice. She had surprised him, maybe even worried him, and she was going to treasure that memory for the rest of her life. But there was one memory she craved more, and she wouldn’t prolong it.

“Yes, Richard,” She whispered in her practiced, defeated voice.

He sighed in relief and kicked her dress toward her. She quickly put it on and stood, wondering if he expected her to clean the blood off of her face.

No.

He probably had a plan for more later. Since she had challenged him this time, mocked him even. The need to punish her covered him like another layer of skin, but he wouldn’t break the routine. Dinner was at seven every night and had been since she had met him.

They locked arms as if he hadn’t just beaten her, and she allowed him to lead her into the dining hall. Her spine was straight, but each step reminded her of places she didn’t know she had been hurt and made her cringe internally.

Beth stood waiting to serve them, and after pulling out the chair for Mary, Richard took his place at the opposite end of the table.

Beth lifted the lid off the dish. It was Wednesday, so Mary already knew it was roast beef before the juice-filled steam clouded the room.

“Should I get her a washcloth?” Beth spoke to Richard, ignoring Mary’s presence completely, as if she wasn’t a human being who could hear and speak for herself.

Mary had the urge to spit on the tablecloth and laugh as her already disgusted expression deepened. But instead of reacting, she sat in her seat and stared at the entrance. She had been waiting for this night for the majority of her adult life.

And then the housekeeper arrived.

She almost stumbled and dropped the orange insulin pen as she spotted Mary, but quickly regained her composure. She was a sweet girl. Young, probably only twenty-two.

Mary didn’t have anything against her, but if she had dropped that pen Mary might have attacked her. Mary glanced toward the steak knife that sat in front of her and had a brief vision of using it to stab everyone in the house. But she put that thought aside because after tonight, she would be a free woman, and nothing would change that.

Mary shook her head and peered at Richard as the housekeeper sat the pen down in front of him before curtsying like the adorable, innocent young woman she was.

“Thank you, Monica.” Richard’s smile was flirtatious, and Mary wondered if he would’ve slept with her had he not been impotent. Monica smiled back, but it was forced.

'But he wants to,' Mary thought. 'Fu*king bastard.'

Mary leaned farther on the table as he injected himself with his insulin, along with the potassium chloride she had added this morning. It wasn’t supposed to take long, but the seconds that ticked by with him still breathing seemed like an eternity to her.

He must’ve noticed Mary’s intense stare because he glanced at her and narrowed his eyes.

“What?” he asked, exasperated. His lips twitched and he coughed.

Mary watched with fascination as his face grew red and his hand went to his chest. His eyes began to bulge. It looked almost as if he were choking, but Mary knew better. His heart was shutting down, which was the reason she chose a substance occurring naturally in the body. It would mimic a heart attack.

“Mr. Kirk!” Beth screamed as he toppled to the floor.

Mary rose from the chair and walked to stand over his dying body as Beth screamed for help and knelt at his side. People appeared in the room, all panicking, but she blocked out most of the noise. Mary was too busy imprinting her husband’s last breaths into her memory.

“Rose, call an ambulance!” Beth pleaded with Richard’s head in her hands.

Mary’s head tilted as the life drained from those dark eyes. No more evil existed. No more cruelty could touch her.

“I am free.”

“Rose?” Beth’s expression was fearful, and her gaze darted between the insulin pen and Mary.

“Don’t worry, Beth.” Mary gave her what she thought would be a comforting smile, but with the way Beth reacted, it was rather frightening. “I’m sure you’ll find another job.”

Mary snatched the pen from the table before strolling into the kitchen and tossing it into the oven with the baking souffle. Sure, it was suspicious, but it hardly mattered. There would be no evidence, and there would be no confession.

“I am free.” Mary wanted to scream those words.

Mary smiled as she passed through the small crowd of her late husband’s concerned servants. They jerked to get out of her way as if they would drop over dead if they came in contact with her. She had made it all the way to the front door, drunk with joy, relief, and hope for a brighter future.

But there was one problem.

As she opened the door and the cool night air kissed her face that was dampened with blood, the world around her spun. It was like her lungs had shrunk to the size of a softball, so even with her panting she couldn’t breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

But still, not enough air entered her lungs.

It was as if the bastard’s hands were still wrapped around her neck. She placed her palm to her aching chest, and if she hadn’t had plenty of panic attacks over the duration of her marriage, she would have thought she was joining Richard in death.

Mary slammed the door closed and pressed her back against the wall, pulling at the strands of her hair until her heartbeat no longer thudded in her ears. She thought Richard had been the source of her panic, and with him gone, it would have dissipated.

She’s been wrong.

So... so... wrong.

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