“It won’t happen again. Honest.” he says, all beseeching charm.
Honest. What a strange word to use, she thought. Strange but apt.
Honesty was raw when he spit on her and called her a useless, third rate slut.
Honesty in his bitter regret, in the verbal venom he spewed to decimate even the tiny shreds of the sense of self that she had clung to.
Honesty bled when he cracked her skull against the brick wall; honesty in the rough fingers seizing her neck, suffocating her with open intent.
Tearful honesty as he kicked her pregnant belly, disowning what he was convinced was a bastard child.
She has been honest too.
Honest in seeking out another man’s body to forget the violence of his weight, his burden on her. Grateful for the white blankness, the emotional insipidity of the encounter. Its utter lack of brutality.
Such a pity, she thought, that savagery and contempt had provided the most illuminating moments in their relationship.