The coolness of the floor soothes my cheek. Trust me, if I could trade for a real ice pack, I would in a heartbeat. But, right now, that heartbeat is focused on keeping me alive.

Damp hair tickles my cheeks, some strands cling to them. Groaning, I know that I should try to get up, but the mere thought of moving makes my stomach churn. The drumming in my head keeps my eyes open, aware of the pain eating away at my energy.

Crusted crimson hides beneath the running blood, and the throbbing in it makes me think that Travis broke it again. A staining drop slivers diagonally down, driving just below my cheekbone and curling around the underside of my jaw. My mind hones into the little distraction. I am willing to attach my mind to anything, even something as insignificant as the dribbling crimson, all in the name of forgetting the pain.

Travis beat me good, real good, unforgettably good enough for me to actually regret what I did to tick him off. I can't even smile at the words I chose to combat his temper. In hindsight, if I knew he would practically destroy my face and mutilate my back, I would not have spoken at all. I would have acted 'lady-like,' like he has been concentrating my studies on for the past four months. I would have nodded and accepted his critique about the meal I made for him. Only him.

I have to pee, but he cuffed my wrist to the sofa's leg before leaving to find something decent at the strip mall. He has been out for the past half hour while the floor's coolness has been spent as a compress. The swelling in the whole right side of my face is inflating but the pain on the left side, where I took the brunt of his assault, is far more excruciating. If pain is any indicator, I imagine that I look similar to a savage, bloodthirsty fiend. If I were released to the world today, I would probably scare the little children like Boo Radley did in Maycomb.

My ears pick up the faint sound of a guzzling engine, but somehow I miss the clicks of the locks and door as it opens.

"Honey, I'm home!" Travis calls with jollity, all of his previous anger dissipated, untraceable from his uncharacteristically beaming spirit. Regardless, I am thankful for the change of tone. I must keep up his mood if I am to evade him. The thud from his shoes makes my temples throb as he approaches. Really, it is the brain-shattering vibrations that cause my head spin in a tailwind.

I flinch when his hand grazes my dandruff laced scalp. The fact that I have not showered for weeks crushes my dignity. Until I prove that I can be the lady he deserves or I stink so much he mistakes the odor in his loft for a decaying skunk ass, showering is forbidden.

"How's my flower, hmm?"

I grunt, acknowledging the reference to a Disney character. "I'm fine," I mutter obediently. A woman is never to complain, not in the presence of others, especially not in front of her man. A lady licks her wounds in silence, alone, without drawing attention to herself. Complaining is as annoying as babies screaming on airplanes, so he claims.

He lowers to sit on the balls of his feet, and I can just make out his figure looming over me. I groan when Travis's hand skims over the scars on my back, meticulously avoiding the open wounds made earlier today. When his fingers graze around the edges of the torn skin, my toes curl in protest. Every time he applies the slightest bit of pressure, I hiss in an effort to suppress complaints.

"Maybe if you're good, I'll put some of that special cream on your back. How does that sound?"

I mumble but only pitiful sounds tumble out. After a beat of silence, the hollowness in the pit of my stomach moans.

He chuckles, taking his hands away. "Hungry much? How many days has it been since you last ate?" Travis tilts his head so that I can see him.

I barely understand the jargon that I answer, "I-I don't remember." A pang of hunger digs into my gut but the notion of opening my mouth makes me sick.

Travis relays his car ride into the suburbs, absentmindedly stroking the tangles lacing my hair in the process. For once, I am thankful that my ears have popped. I don't want to hear him, all the details of savory food he consumed while I laid here writhing in agony.

After what seems like hours, I detect the faint click of the police cuffs unlocking. It slips off my metal bitten wrist that stings when the air nips at the laceration. Squeezing my eyes shut, I whimper as he lifts me up. My legs are so weak, and I wobble like a foal on its first day out of its mother's womb. Travis allows me to lean against his chest as we trudge into the kitchen.

"Sit." Metal screeches against itself as he unseals a can of beans. Thankful for the reprieve, my eyes flutter shut. Whoosh! Another wave of exhaustion claws for my mind. As much as I hate myself for wishing it was time for bed, I need sleep. I have been running for two days straight - so has he - but it was on his accord.

Shaking the thought out of my head, I will the tears to stay back. Pain drains every thought I have as I suffer in silence.

The bowl slams on the table with a thunderous clap. He loves making me jump, I see it behind the glint in his eyes even though his face is fixed with sternness. "Eat."

I go to pick up the spoon, but he rips it out of my hand with lighting speed, making my injured wrist jolt in extreme pain. The reaction is instantaneous, my hand retreats to my sternum while the other cradles it protectively. I can't see through the nauseating distress my bones feel. When my vision is lucid enough to distinguish basic shapes, I sneak a glance in his direction.

"What do you say?" Travis's domineering tone dares me to challenge his alpha image.

I rock in my chair, breathing through my mouth. "I-I'm sorry."

"For?" he inquires.

I have to wonder for a moment before it clicks. "Thank you for the food." My dead brown eyes fall to his polished shoes.

"Good girl." I hate that and he knows the term makes me cringe. "Next time don't forget. You're really wearing my patience, Kayla." He sits beside me with his peering glare. "A man can only endure so many mistakes from his woman. Stop fucking up." His tone is as sharp as a serrated knife straight out of the packaging.

"I'm sorry, I'll try harder," I mutter with concealed bitterness. I am not his woman.

Travis begins to talk again, but the words float into one ear and out the other. All I can think is how much it hurts to think. Pain throbs in my side, in my temple, my face, on my back, everywhere. It is coming to a point where it is plainly exhausting to stay awake, alert, focused on whatever the hell he is blabbing about. He threads his hands through my mangled hair. Caressing my scalp, he digs his fingernails into the skin. It would feel pleasant if I weren't in so much pain to actually enjoy the massage.

After I shovel all the grits into my mouth, Travis leads me to the queen-sized bed. I do not need to undress because I already am. He does not allow me to wear clothes as it is a reward for good behavior. I used to cover myself, and I still do sometimes from his lustful gaze. However, pressing matters of pervasive pain knock modesty to the back burner.

His torn knuckles graze my nape with tenderness like he is afraid of hurting me. I sense his eyes on me as he toys with my hair. Finally, Travis says, "I'm sorry about earlier, it's just-" He huffs and collects his thoughts. "When you don't listen to me, you make me so angry. If you would just follow my rules, I wouldn't be upset. You just keep pushing my buttons." A disappointed sigh follows his excuse.

I would have enjoyed back talking, but then again, my body could not bear the burden of another beating. Instead, I nod with a stoic gaze. His apologies are as crappy as his cooking.

Sucking on my chapped lips, my tongue runs over the cracks. "I'm sorry I make you so upset," my automated response eases out in a robotic Siri voice.

"It's okay. Things will be better, you'll learn. It's just taking me a little longer to get through your thick skull." Travis traces lazy circles around my belly button. "What do you think will make you listen better? Hmm? What do I have to do?" The question is void of voice swings.

Images of my brutalized body flash before my exhausted eyes. No more. Please, no. "I-I don't know." I breathe, knowing that a panic attack is on its way if I can't reign in my emotions. "I'm sorry, I'm trying, please don't hurt me," I can't stop myself from imploring.

His threats are more than adequate to make me tremble in my boots. Reaching over he grasps my shoulder and rolls me onto my healing back. Swallowing a complaint, I relax and allow his fingers smooth over my swollen cheek.

"Hey, hey. What did I say about crying?"

I don't notice that I am until he demands my compliance. "Okay, I'm sorry. I'm just really tired, and-" I resolve, rambling anything to protect myself.

"Shhh, it's okay. I understand. We stayed up really late last night, didn't we?" His words force me to return to thoughts I would rather let die.

"Yes."

"Alright, my love, we'll talk tomorrow," he whispers as he draws me to snuggle against his chest. With expertise, he massages my wretched brown waves until sleep seizes me.

Don't, don't. Please! My drumming heartbeat spirals out of control as I lose the will to not plead, to stay quiet, to take it because I deserve it. His body is heavy, so, so heavy. Please! Don't! Stop! I whip my head side to side as he mocks me, laughs at my helplessness. Please! No!

His nails root deep into my wrists as he routinely locks them to the wire-thin, metal bracelets protruding from the headboard."Stop your fucking whining, Kayla! "

I sob harder, weeping at my weakness, my inability to remove him, my powerlessness. Disobediently, another cry howls. "Ahhh!" Pins and needles snap my wrist. Holy, mother effing Christ! Dark spots dance sporadically. My stomach reels as I attempt to hunch over and hurl the contents of yesterday's meal. Since I can't manage to retreat to the bathroom, vomit spills over my chest and the linen bedspread.

His own shrill of repulsion bounces across the walls as he shoves himself away from me. My cheeks flush in absolute humiliation. Another step toward self-loathing I take. His deathly glare shoots to the bile oozing mindlessly. My head hangs limply as I counsel my defeated spirit.

Jolting up, my eyes flash open meeting the pitch black bedroom. Sweat crowns my hairline as I come to terms that he is not on top of me. Panting, I feel the terror receding little by little as reality reassures my mind. The dream felt so real, so frighteningly real.

Maybe because it was.