The sound of one hand clapping

A bang on the door, a pound on the table, a thump on the wall. Eventually, a slap across my face.

Somewhere in my mind I strongly believed that one day he would come home with a smile. “Honey, I’m home!” He would announce, greet me with a kiss and tell me how wonderful his day had been. I kept hoping frustration would go away and be replaced with peace in our home.

A bang on the door, a pound on the table, a thump on the wall. Eventually, a slap across my face.

They say insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results. I guess you could say I must have been insane; I kept on going back to him, expecting to find a changed man each time. Only now do I realise that I must have been crazy to expect him to step back each time I screamed “STOP.”

A bang on the door, a pound on the table, a thump on the wall. Eventually, a slap across my face.

Each night he stumbled his way home, speech slurred, eyes red and fists ready to attack. It always began with careless remarks on how useless I am. Funny how everything that never went as planned was a result of my presence in his life. A very vulgar lecture on my nonexistent whoring ways would be followed by my screams of agony.

A bang on the door, a pound on my face, a thump on the wall. Eventually, a slap across my face.

Now I know the truth. He will never change. My beauty will never return. The bruises will never fade. My confidence will never resurface.

A bang on the door, a pound on my face, a thump on the wall. Eventually, a slap across my face. The sounds of his one hand clapping.

Truth is, you can only go back to him so much before
you either exit in a coffin or bruised forever.