“Turn back on that tele. Can’t you see I’m fucking watching it?”
Oh, he proceeds to flick through the channels, no stopping for nothing. Through the news, gardening programmes, soap operas, advertisements, through it all. Fucking squeezing down the dinner without thought nor thanks. He’s put on a lot of weight, too. Fucking slob. He hasn’t shaved either. In a vest he looks like a bear, hair poking out the top, even through the filthy thing. And later, when he comes home scuttered from the pub, he’ll want to grab me, beat me then fuck me.
I hate his smell. I don’t want him near me because his stink crawls up my nose and strangles my throat from the inside. His rough face scratching me, my face, my neck… My legs. His breathe finding a place in my clothes, sticking to them. In the morning, my blouses smell like beer and fags and I have to wash them.
I hate him. I HATE him.
I’m gonna kill him.
“I’LL KILL YA, YA BASTARD!”
And I beat him over his thick skull with the frying pan I cooked his feed in. After the first one, he’s on the ground. He tries to block the second smack with his arm and I break it. The dinner plate and food are scattered across the carpet, the sauce soaking in.
“What are you doing, you crazy bitch?”
I hit him again and again and again until he shuts up and stops moving. Until he stops chewing and stinking and hitting and screwing. Until he stops fucking breathing.
The clock says it’s twenty-five to eight so I turn the tele to TV3 for Corrie. I missed the first five minutes but it doesn’t matter now.