It was not every day she got to survive taking a beating. Now and then it was either she was getting whipped or yelled at. There was not a single day she did not worry that a belt might come flying at her for no reason at all.
Fresh blood oozed down her shoulders, she was pale as a phantom and was trembling, gasping at the pain, hunched over like an armadillo curling into a ball.
The house wreaked with alcohol, she would throw up if she would but her stomach was empty. She was hungry, when you were hungry that was all you could think about.
It wasn't an old apartment with fading yellow paint on the walls or an old color TV set, a browned couch in front of it, an old air conditioner, and a sole light bulb hanging over them.
Blood dripped from the pocket knife in his hand and he tossed it away.
He rubbed his jaw as if he wasn't satisfied with the pain he had inflicted on her.
