Being The Survivor Stinks.

I Scan The Room. Catherine Is Writing Quickly, Her Light Brown Hair Falling Over Her Face. She Is Left-handed, And Because She Writes In Pencil Her Left Arm Is Silver From Wrist To Elbow.

I Have To Convince Myself That This Is Not A Pointless Life, Even The Body Is Telling Me So.

Afterward, I Curl Around Her. We Lie In Silence Until Darkness Falls, And Then, Haltingly, She Begins To Talk...she Speaks Without Need Or Even Room For Response, So I Simply Hold Her And Stroke Her Hair. She Talks Of The Pain, Grief, And Horror Of The Past Four Years; Of Learning To Cope With Being The Wife Of A Man So Violent And Unpredictable His Touch Made Her Skin Crawl And Of Thinking, Until Quite Recently, That She'd Finally Managed To Do That. And Then, Finally, Of How My Appearance Had Forced Her To Realize She Hadn't Learned To Cope At All.

I'm Truly Grateful For My Microwave, Which Allows Me To Easily Clarify Butter, Steam Vegetables, And - When I Am Really Lazy - Feed My Three Kids In Less Than Five Minutes.

Being The Survivor Stinks.