The Spark - A One-Shot

This story deals with DARK themes. Spousal abuse, death by spouse, God. If you have problems with any of these things, I highly suggest you don't read this.

The Spark

He began to kill me slowly, assuredly, but discreet, like a sneaky mouse somehow figuring the cheese out of the trap. Like most things do, it started with the words as he twisted them, rolling them around in his mouth, seeking out paths that would make them most ugly, hurt the worst. Filthy. Cheater. Whore. Pathetic. Liar. Cunt.

At first, I fought against them as they were not me. I wasn't filthy; I was faithful, loyal, loving, trusting, and I knew this…for some time at least. The words began to settle onto my skin, then after a short time, began to absorb into me. Were his words the truth? Was I what he called me?

was what he called me.

All the vile ugliness he saw was me.

Deserving of his wrath.

His venom.

His hate.

When things began to grow jaded, I came to the realization that my life was soon just going to epically fall apart and leave nothing but a path of destruction in its wake. I waited for that day, anticipated it almost.
I would return home from the part-time job that he allowed me to have in order to help pay bills to find him already sprawled out on the couch, drinking his beer and watching the television…again. I did what was to be done in order to please him and to stay under the radar – a radar that NASA would be jealous of. Supper was made, the man was fed, the house cleaned spotless, then cleaned again. The children were bathed, put to bed, and had stories read to them before they were tucked into their safe havens and sent off to a sweet world of dreams: race cars and My Little Ponies.

My feet dragged my wary body to the bedroom where he would methodically fuck me while I zoned out; not there, not there at all. My prayers and pleas to God were all I had to hold on to. Please, God, take me somewhere else.

He began to pinch.

My skin between his fingers, whatever he could get a hold of. The thin skin over my hips, the soft, sensitive flesh beside my breast, whatever was in his reach. Fat, he said. I was getting fat, when in fact, the scale said something else. My scale was a pathological liar. The weight continued to fall off and he pinched less and less skin, whatever he could get a hold of. Somehow, the lesser amount of skin, the more it hurt. He laughed when he saw the tears that sprung to my eyes, and I knew I hated him.
Death would be the only way I could be away from him. I began thinking of ways it would take one of us – either I'd have to kill him, or he would eventually end my life.

Speaking of such things – killing your husband – I knew was something that would ensure my path to Hell. Who was I to speak of such things? He was my husband, and I was bound to him. I promised to love, cherish, and obey him for the rest of my life. He made the promise to me in return and that memory ate at me. Surely I was evil, to have thought such ugliness.

Our time in public – amidst our friends and family – was beautiful, sublime. He doted on me, stroked my hair and peppered my forehead, nose and cheeks with tiny kisses. My friends declared their jealously of my husband's love for me, wishing their own showed such adoration for them. What they didn't know was that once we returned home, things turned volatile too quickly. An egg cooked at the wrong temperature could spoil the day within seconds.

His rage over situations which seemed insignificant to me scared me the most. For so long, he expressed his frustrations on me. I welcomed it, because he was venting it on me, not on anyone else. As his wife, I should have been the one to absorb it. I began to worry about what would happen if I did die. Who would be there for him to vent his anger to? Surely, he wouldn't vent on the children. He loved them, just has he loved me.

The children must be protected.

I wrote a letter. I was always weak, so afraid to speak up for myself and for my precious children, my loves, my heart, my life. I would endure his hate, his ugliness, his wrath, if it meant protecting them. So I did.

I snapped photos of the bruises and printed them off. I took the pictures and the letter to the bank and purchased a safety deposit box, paid for with pennies saved up over the years. Mailing the key to my sister, I asked her to keep it in the safest of places. I knew the time would come; it was drawing near.

A pinch turned into a slap, sometimes a flick from his long, bony fingers on my arm, ribs, back, or my rear. Sometimes so hard there would be sharp, ugly crimson marks against my pale skin that would later turn into dull violet bruises. Wearing long sleeves hid my failures as a wife from the public eye.

Why was I so weak? Take the children and run. Run, Esme Platt. Just fucking run. I chanted it in my brain every single day. Run, run, run. I stayed, and the slaps and flicks turned to shoves and a punch. And another. And another.

Punches. Almost like a brotherly punch to an arm when messing around with your friends. I saw it for what it was – he was upping his game, his abuse, his hate and fury. I knew I was closer to dying. I continued to pray, already tasting the clouds of Heaven and hoping that God would take me.

He added kicks to the punches, placed them in painful, hidden areas: my stomach, my legs, my back. I began to urinate blood. My face – that he had once called angelic, beautiful, charming – remained unmarred and hiding his hate.

I began to see colors in life. Everything became vivid when I thought it should be dull, lacking. My children took on the vibrant, lush colors I could only dream of: golds, blues, greens, violets, white. I saw orbs floating around their heads and could only assume that they were either angels, or I was beginning to go mad. I had a feeling it was a little bit of both.

I painted the living room.

He hated it, ranting for hours, and once again, called me names. He wasn't yet drunk, so he threw no punches. I only wanted to please him. He once talked about the living room looking good with green paint on its walls. It was the wrong color of green; I had failed to read his mind, therefore, failed him…again.

I wrote a letter to the state, and it, too, went into the safety deposit box.

He began to bite.

Vicious red circles left on my shoulders, my legs, stomach, arms, ass, and my back. He bit to draw blood, then yelled at me for bleeding, and shouted at me to clean up my ridiculous mess. I was always making messes.

I wrote a long letter to my sister. It too, went into the safety deposit box.

His fury, his hate for me and for life in general, came to an all-time high. He was laid off from work, and I knew that the worst was coming. The time was coming.

I sent the kids to visit my sister. I quit being afraid.

They were enjoying their time, playing with their cousins and visiting my parents.

The end and the beginning took place.

He caught me from behind; his fury, hate, wrath, at an all time high. He was red and black around the edges as he turned me to face him, and I did what I promised myself I would do.

I smiled like I did on my wedding day.

I floated along that plane. Marlin on the EAC. My soul continued to exist, although, my body was still below me in the newly evergreen painted living room, being strangled by a demon that was my husband. And I smiled, because in reality, I won. He would end me, and I would finally be able to give him what he wanted – no more of me.

As my soul began to depart, I could truly see. He would never see his children again. He was a wife murderer, and his aura had gone from red to nothing. His life force – his spark—that made him human and real—was gone. He actually ceased to exist in his killing of me.

The pain in my neck evaporated; the pressure and grip of each of his fingers no longer existing.
My soul, my essence, my spark…ascended.

I heard the baritone voice of my Angel, my protector. He wept, sorry that he could not protect me from this, and I comforted him as I turned my back on my death and soared in my transcendence. My beautiful blond angel held my hand as we soared through time, or un-time. I watched the air spark around me, witnessed other good souls traveling to their eternal happiness.

Tears came to my eyes as I thought of my children, and my angel pulled me to him, surrounding me with his wings, giving me his warmth and immeasurable love. I wept upon his silk feathers as I thought about my children, remembering their beautiful, happy auric colors. I dreamed of touching their hair as they slept and holding the tissues to their faces as they blew their noses.

Why had I let this happen? I should have been stronger. I should have been better. Each blow to my body and mind a reminder of my indiscretions – I should have been a better cook, I should have kept his house cleaner. If only I had been brave.

My angel stroked my face and told me I could see them.

I met Him, and once again, I was loved, and I was brave.

I had always been so wrong. I should have run.

I visited my sister in her dream, and we wept. She poured out her love to me in words and tears, and I told her she had to be strong for me and for my children. I told her that I was sorry I had burdened her, and that I hadn't told her before it was too late.

We wept, and when she woke along with the warm sun, she smiled and said 'I love you' out loud. Her husband mumbled an 'I love you' back to her through his sleep, and she rolled her eyes and smiled wider. I smiled and wept again. She looked up at the ceiling of her bedroom, then whispered 'we will be okay, I love you, and I'm sorry.'

Again, I wept, and went to look on my sleeping children. I felt the death; the strangulation of my senses – the distance from my children and the pain it caused both them and me. I felt hate toward my weakness.

My blond angel surrounded me with love, and I felt the hot salt of my anguish rain down on my face.

I watched my children wander aimlessly, going through the motions of living, and watched their beautiful colors dim. I wept harder. I watched them pray to Him before bed, asking why their mommy had gone away, and I ached to sooth their sadness, their worry, fear; to wipe away their tears.

I sat between their beds and visited them as they dreamt. I hugged them close to me, my grip on them like a vice as they wept in happiness, knowing it had all been a bad dream. I was there, alive.

My heart broke all over again, this was too hard for them, it wasn't fair, and I had been conceited and a fool for thinking that it would be good for them to see me one last time.

I explained that mommy lived with God now, and to never see their father again. My son said he should have protected me. I told him no, protection wasn't possible. They were safe now.

They were safe. I had to let go. They begged me to say. I shushed them back to sleep in their dream, and I said I would see them later. This was the final gift I could give them. Freedom. Room to grow and love and be.

The world looked and felt so different in death. The energy in the trees, the rocks, the air, in animals, people; it pulsed, flashed, and I felt it all within me. I felt the heat of life on my palms, and it was the balm to my pain. I felt the love my sister had for me and for my children, and it was the permission I needed.

I felt the pulse of life and love beat around me, surround me, and my blond angel held his hand out to me once more. I was wrapped into him and he whispered that we had one more visit before I could forever rest in peace with God.

And we sailed through time and un-time to my last visit.

I heard the crying before I saw him. His spark gone, making his form almost transparent from the lack of aura, lack of beauty. He slept in unrest.

I entered his dream, and he saw me, tried to strangle me again, but he couldn't break through my aura of happiness and love. He stared at me, confused.

He shouted that I wasn't there, that I was dead, and he was dreaming. I assured him that he was dreaming, and that yes, I was dead, but also that I was indeed there. He cried and sank to the floor, and I smiled.

I told him that the love of God was beautiful and sweet, and that I could see the demons lurking in the corners for him. He would not see me in Heaven because he would never get there. I laughed at him because it would be me who got the last word, even dead. I would be eternally happy, while he would go through pain and death over and over again in Hell...and he screamed. He writhed on the floor and said he was sorry, but there was no truth to it. His aura never returned, and he was already mostly dead. His spark: black.

I laughed harder, because when he awoke in the morning, it would have just been a horrible dream, but I knew that he would know.

I left him like that and turned to my blond angel, reaching for his embrace, and we made the trip Home together. I was ready for death and eternal life. Knowing he would never again hurt anyone.

I knew I was free, and that he…was not.

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