THE SIRENS COULD BE HEARD coming down the street as I sat on the steps of my front porch awaiting their arrival. Sticky, drying blood caked in my hair, on my face, hands, and clothes. I sat there twisting my wedding rings around my finger, leaving tacky fingerprints from my thumb and pointer finger on the sides of the bands. It was an expensive marquis 2-carat diamond white gold set. Inside the wedding band were the inscriptions Until Death, and Love, Mark. I focused on the wedding band, ignoring the blood-stained rings on the rest of my fingers.

I was taught at a young age to wear as many rings as possible in case I got into a fight. Brass knuckles were considered a deadly weapon, but a girl with rings stacked on every finger was simply wearing jewelry. Every single ring my mother would buy me, I would have it sized for a specific finger. When all ten had a ring, I would start over, stacking rings on top of one another. As I grew older, the need for them tapered off little by little. I kept them in a box in my room alongside all the jewelry my husband gifted me.

Those fucking presents made me gag.

Every time he hit me, every time he cheated on me, every time he did something that would make normal women leave, he brought me jewelry, flowers, and an apology with a promise never to do it again. The fixation on resizing the rings never left. Whenever one of the presents was a ring, I took it to the jeweler. I had it sized to a specific finger, then placed it in the jewelry box where it would sit and tarnish, just like our marriage.

He would go out drinking. When he returned, he reeked of stale alcohol and cigarettes as well as whatever body spray or body lotion the stripper of the night had worn. Most nights, he would pass out in the clothes he was wearing. Some nights, he would throw himself on me and believe he was a god during the two minutes he spent fucking me. The other nights… well, the next day he would be patching holes in the walls while I cleaned up broken glass from every single picture, whatnot, and trinket he could throw at my face that lay shattered on the floor.

Bruises. Busted lips. Broken bones. Miscarriages. That’s what his hands caused every time he touched me. His hands… god, his fucking hands. I cringed thinking of them roaming my body as he tried to have make-up sex or the times he would take what he wanted, when I didn’t want it. He didn’t understand the meaning of No. He would throw me down, ripping my clothes and layering his mouth and tongue across my neck and chest. Showering could never rinse the stench of his alcohol-laced breath from my memory.

In the beginning, I’d fight back. I learned quickly that if he didn’t get what he wanted, he would give me the bruises to match his desire. Black eyes were his specialty. An open-handed smack to the face from him felt the same as a punch. I can count on two hands the times he rang my ears from slapping me in the last fifteen years. Several times, my eardrums burst, and I would deal with a bloody ear and temporary hearing loss.

He would buy me trashy lingerie and serve him dinner in it after work. He would make me kneel in front of him in my panties and a bra, handing him a plate of food I spent hours perfecting. If the seasoning wasn’t right or the meat wasn’t cooked to his expectations, he would dump the steaming food on my head and smash the plate on the floor. He’d then order himself takeout from Outback Steakhouse. I wasn’t allowed to shower the food off until he was ready for bed. He would make me sleep on the floor like a dog because “That’s where bitches who didn’t mind their master” slept.

***

The first blow took him by surprise when he walked through the door. As soon as the door closed, I landed the hit square in his nose. Blood gushed forth as he howled in pain and rage, grabbing his nose. The second blow caught him in the cheekbone, and my wedding ring opened a gash parallel to his jaw. He lunged forward, clutching my forearms in his grasp. I tucked backward and rolled, kicking him off with my feet in one swift movement as he slammed on his back, busting the coffee table.

He gasped as the air was knocked from his lungs, giving me ample time to grab the mallet he used to split firewood I left beside his precious recliner. I walked over to him, positioned my hands on the handle correctly, and swung it down, hobbling his knee. His kneecap released with a loud crack, popping out of its placement to the left. His scream was not only inhuman but, quite frankly, like a sad ass pussy. I lifted it again and swung down on his other knee, with a crack. Blood pooled around his legs as the bones snapped and tore through his skin like paper mache. It pooled through his now torn coif khakis I had ironed earlier that morning.

I set the mallet down to pick up the axe I had also beside the recliner, wiping sweat from my brow as the heat from the fireplace pressed down on my skin. I leaned over him, hair tied back. My loose hair would usually hang for him to grab by the fistful to drag me across the floor he thrashed on. He grasped at nothing. I swung the axe, taking his hand off at the wrist and leaving his knub spurting like a sprinkler. He clutched the knub and howled before dropping it as shock settled into his bones. I stepped on his still whole arm, pinning it, and with one final, swift swing, I lopped that wrist off as well. The arterial blood sprayed me in the face.

I didn’t even flinch.

He was losing consciousness from the blood loss and shock, but I couldn’t have that. I walked over to the fireplace where I had my cast iron skillet sitting on top of the roaring flames that I used to cook his steak to medium rare perfection every Friday night. I grabbed the handle with the towel. Placing it on his newfound stump and searing his veins closed.

He never screamed as much as he did in this moment. I switched to the other hand and cauterized it. His skin sizzled, and the pungent sweet smell of burning sulphur hit my nose. I gagged. Dropping the skillet, it thudded to the floor and scorched the hardwood floor. From the kitchen, I grabbed a chef’s knife. Standing in the doorway, I watched him squirm uncomfortably on the ground as the energy drained from him. My eyes drifted along the walls and floor, dripping mess from swinging the ax and mallet. The urge to stop what I was doing and clean was strong. I pushed through it.

I straddled his chest as he struggled to stay conscious. I laid the knife down beside his body while running my fingertips across his lips. I pulled out my bright red lipstick from my bra and lathered a fresh coat across my lips. He never let me wear this color. He said only whores wore red lipstick, and if I wanted to be a whore then he could put me to work and at least make money off of me. I rubbed my lips together as I replaced the cap on the lipstick and set it beside his head. I grasped him firmly by the jowls as I twisted his face and planted a kiss on his cheek.

“You fucking bitch,” he whispered. “Fucking cunt whore!”

I smiled and ran my hands down his torso, landing on his pants zipper. I unzipped with one hand and pulled his dick free of his underwear. I stroked it, letting the tip of it tease the lips of my pussy poking from the sides of the thong under my dress he made me wear for easy access. I lowered myself more so the tip could drag across my clit, and a small gasp escaped my lips as I edged myself, using his blood as lube and coming all over him. His cock stiffened whether he wanted it to or not. I balanced myself over his legs as I scooted further back and placed his cock in my mouth and gently sucked. I bobbed my head, taking it all the way to the back of my throat, and felt the vein begin to bulge, signaling he was about to come.

I picked up the chef’s knife. Grasping his dick in my hand as cum erupted and run over my hand, I sliced it cleanly across the base of the disgusting meat stick. He gurgled on bile trickling out of the corner of his mouth. With his sliced off dick in one hand, I raised the knife over my head and stabbed it down through his ball sack. I was back on his chest, straddling him and beating his face with my hands adorned with every single ring I owned. All of the names he ever called me fueled each blow to his face. Stupid bitch. Worthless cunt. Pathetic whore. When I was finished, I pried his mouth open and shoved his own bloody, cummy dick in there for him to choke on.

“Eat your fucking dinner,” I hissed.

Rising, I walked to the front door, opened it, and then proceeded outside to sit on the front porch. I pulled my phone, from my bra, and dialed 911. I couldn’t say anything when the operator came on the line. I just sat there, waiting.

“Ma’am, we got a nine-one-one call. Are you hurt?” an officer called out as he ran up to me on the porch, breaking me from the daze I was in.

I know how long it had been since I dialed 911. I shook my head as I stared straight ahead, still twisting my wedding rings around my finger.

“Is anyone inside hurt?” he asked.

I nodded.

He squeezed the walkie-talkie attached to his shirt. “We need an ambulance…” his words trailed off as my hearing went out. The adrenaline was wearing off…

“Ma’am!” he screamed, shaking me as I snapped back into the moment. “Did you do this?”

“Could you hurry inside, please. My husband will be home soon, and he won’t like the mess left in there.”

The officer stood before me, confused.

“Please, he will punish me if I don’t clean up. I have to clean up. I have to make his dinner. I have to…”

---

---