Forgiving Rage

About the Book

With each thrust of his sweaty, musty body deep inside me he delivered a measure of pain that totally enveloped me. My constant pleas for him to stop went ignored. Every rigid motion of his body made me ache from head to toe. I was forced to lie there. Lying there motionless, I dared not to whine because each time I did, he seemed more deliberate and intent on delivering pain with each motion. I closed my eyes tighter and tighter trying to block out what was happening until they hurt. Inadvertently I bit into my bottom lip causing it to bleed. The blood trickled down the side of my face and onto my chin. Then slowly, it slid down my neck. He straddled my body rendering me defenseless. With his massive strength, he bound my hands over my head with his. I wrestled with this brutality trying to free myself until I became fatigued and couldn’t resist anymore. He laughed at me, a deep evil laugh. I knew as well as he that I was no match for his physical strength. My one hundred and forty-five pounds were no match for him but I tried nonetheless. He toyed with me as he’d switch hands whenever one tired, he switch to the other making me believe that in an instance I could possibly free myself and seek refuge. Toying with me was my punishment for not relenting. The feeling of the wet blood coupled with the perspiration that fell from his brow was annoying me and it was staining my recently washed hair. I wouldn’t even mind the hair if I went to the beauty salon, but I didn’t. The upkeep was solely my responsibility. And my hair wasn’t the most manageable type. It was long, thick and unruly when wet.

I desperately wanted to wipe away the combination of blood, his sweat and my tears that were trickling down my face adding to my discomfort. It irritated me so. Suddenly the momentum of his body picked up pace. He panted and grunted like a wild animal. He dug deeper into me with each forceful thrust. I stopped fighting him and braced myself. This is it. Soon this would be over. He thrust deeper, harder, faster and panted. The smell of his breath was making me nauseous. He let out a loud lion-like roar, erupted like a volcano inside of me then collapsed. The dead weight of his body fell upon mine. He lay there for a moment. I couldn’t breathe. I twisted my trapped body under his trying to free myself. He stayed there for a moment then lifted him I lay there for a while daring not move until I heard the sound of his drunken snore. self up. He kissed me on my forehead then rolled to the other side of the bed. I gently slid over the side of the bed and dropped to the floor. Silently I prayed that my movements, as guarded as they were, would not awaken him. I dragged my aching body across the floor and over to the bathroom. In fear of retribution I held in my cries of agony and pain. Once I’d made it to the safety of the bathroom, the closed door would muffle any sounds. There I could survey the damage.

Timidly, I allowed what was left on of my clothing that hadn’t been ripped off, fall to the floor. I walked over to the mirror and wiped it clean with the palm of my hand. I stared at the once modelesque figure in the mirror and shook my head. “This was awful and it hurt immensely,” I thought to myself. I turned sideways and lifted up my left arm. The pain enveloped me. There it was, a big dark discolored spot forming right at my rib cage where the bruising had already begun. As I replayed the events in my mind, my anger escalated and every bone in my body screamed out for revenge. There were so many ways that I could end this. He was lying there asleep, vulnerable. And because he was drunk, he was virtually helpless. I could shoot him. No, I couldn’t. It was too brutal, too messy. I could stab him, but that would warrant my getting too close to him. The cold waters shocked me into reality. I exited the shower feeling stronger; my anger was fueling me. When I returned to the bedroom I looked at him as he lay resting

About the Author

Wendy Williams-Thornton is a freelance writer and an award winning elementary educator for the local public school system. Barbara Kingsolver lives with her husband Steven Hopp, and their two daughters, Camille (born in 1987), and Lily (1996). They divide their time between Tuscon, Arizona, and a farm in southern Appalachia. When not writing, Barbara gardens, cooks, and enjoys the outdoors with her family; works as an environmental activist and human-rights