‘Hatred of me in every page! You always make me out to be the bad guy! This is your fault Martha. Remember that!’
He pushed Martha again.
She held on to his arm. ‘Please Thomas, don’t be angry with me, I beg you.’
A violent shove to the ground, and she tumbled back on to the carpet. Hesitantly back into an upright position, she tried to stand her ground, but was thrust into the table. Her diary hurled across the room, it smashed into his painting. His cheek was ruined by a scratch to sculptured features.
Martha tried to get to her feet, but Thomas recoiled his leg and kicked her in the stomach. ‘Get down.’
‘Thomas, please, I can explain.’
Curled into a ball, Thomas dragged her back into a standing position, only to force her back down again.
‘Thomas please don’t . . .’
With a brutal move, he snapped the delicate robin in two and launched it to the ground. ‘That’s what I think of your fucking lovers trophy. You belong to me Martha!’ His belt removed; Thomas reared like an angry bull.
Martha could no longer distinguish between the ringing in her ears and the jagged edges of metal beneath her feet. His arm rose again. The belt buckle broke the skin in her cheek. She was sent flying to the floor. The cold hard marble of the fire surround reached the tips of her fingers. Unable to blink, Martha could only watch as he stormed towards her. His belt hung limp beside him. Her breaths pounded into her chest. Another blow from the belt tore through her tights, and blood seeped through to the floor.
‘Get up!’ Thomas ordered.
‘I’m getting up Thomas, please don’t hit me again.’
As she pushed up towards the mantlepiece, the belt found a clear piece of skin on her leg. Visions of her stillborn baby, no bigger than her palm, shattered into her mind. Perfect in every way. Yet Thomas had killed him. Her hands touched the cold hard crystal of his mother’s vase. Get it over with, let me join your son.
Writer Ravenclaw 