Peter walked into the house, slamming the door behind him. “Brenda!”
She didn’t hear him. She was in the bedroom putting away clean laundry, listening to a recording of Bach and dancing joyfully with the music.
“Brenda!” he bellowed again, storming his way down the hallway.
He stood in the doorway, watching her sway to the music. She held her arms in the waltz position and a smile spread across her face. Just who the hell does she think she is? She started to turn, her imaginary lover clinging to her arms.
She spied him too late. She stopped abruptly, turned to flee but wasn’t fast enough. He grabbed her ponytail, yanking it hard, pulling her off her feet. She fell to the ground, breaking the fall with one knee. Her arms went up automatically, grabbing his hands to lessen the pain. He slapped her face. “Why did you let them take her?” he screamed into her face. His sour breath revolted her, and she pulled back.
“It wasn’t my fault.”
He slapped her again and pulled her ponytail toward him until their faces were only an inch apart. “Shut up!”
He let go. She fell to the ground. “It’s always your fault.” He picked up his foot and stomped down on her belly. She bent over, grabbing her abdomen and writhing in pain. He kicked her in the ribs. She coughed, spewing blood as she did.
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