by Martha Woods
These days, it felt as if they were living together for the image more than anything. People in Brixton didn’t often get divorced. They mended the cracks, fixed what was broken, or just swallowed their pride and forced convincing smiles.
Mia's own mother had been the same, but had also dreamed of running away, of taking Mia around the world and escaping her distant husband, who always smelled of a light perfume her mother couldn’t afford. Mia didn’t ask questions; she learned early on to stay quiet and smile, just like her mother.
There had been no response from Dixon. Mia grabbed a box of dry pasta from the cabinet and got a saucepan from the cupboard. She stopped when she heard a slight noise from farther inside the house. Curious, she leaned toward the hallway, and called out again. “Dixon?”
Her words were met with silence for a moment before the bedroom door was yanked violently open.
Mia's entire body tensed, and she felt an incredible sense of fight or flight. Dixon was in a dangerous mood, and she hadn't even done anything to set him off yet. Stepping back into the kitchen, she set the box down and attempted to continue the conversation.
“Hey, I just got back. Are you hungry? I can make us some pasta.”
Still no answer. She could hear loud footsteps coming down the hall. Her grip on the box tightened, her fingers denting the sides. A strong scent of whiskey wafted into the small kitchen, and Mia felt herself choking on the stench. A low grunt of recognition preceded his entrance to the kitchen.
“You're late.” His words were low, yet they cut through her with ease. Mia's breathing quickened, and she tried to think why he might be so angry.
She forced a smile and turned to face her husband. “It was a late night at the hospital, Marshall had some trouble with his bull again; it caught him good in the thigh.”
Dixon’s tight grip on her arm yanked her roughly toward him. The faintest whimper slipped through her lips, the smell of stale liquor thick and awful against her face. Mia did her best not to struggle, she had learned over the years not to. The more she fought against him, the worse his anger would become as the night progressed. After all these years of fighting, she knew it was worse when she tried to hit him back. It was these fights she feared him the most, that had trained the young woman to mind herself and hold her tongue.
“We both know that's not the reason.” He growled the words low, like an animal, and she felt herself shaking in his grasp.
She gritted her teeth. “That hurts.” Her voice sounded as small as she felt.
“Who were you with?” He hissed the accusation through his teeth, nails digging into the skin of her arm. Mia’s struggles were nothing against his iron grasp. “I’m sick of your sneaking around and all of your fucking lying, Mia!”
She yanked her head away from the stench of his breath. “You've been drinking.” A whisper, nothing more, her eyes cast to the ground.
There was a moment of silence and his grip loosened. Her heart skipping, Mia looked up to her husband, dreading what might happen next. This was the usual dance for them, the dangerous game they played night after night. He would drink himself into a stupor, find fault with her, and then they would argue.
"Can you blame me?" Dixon snarled. "My wife's been whoring around again!"
Mia had never gone to bed with any man but her husband, but the accusations were quite common, Dixon assuming her late nights at the hospital were instead hidden affairs in the woods. Mia had never understood her husband’s paranoia. She had never strayed before, never even been tempted. Though she knew what he would think if he knew she was visiting another man's hotel room… but he couldn't know about that. Besides, she had done nothing wrong. It was just tea with a friend. At times, she would sit back and think about his vivid insecurities and wonder if he was aware of how unhappy she was.
Perhaps he feared to lose her, perhaps he feared she would find another man, a better man who could provide her with the dream that he promised. The dream of a beautiful home with beautiful children, of a life that they would build together. In their youth, Dixon would often whisper these sweet nothings, these empty promises to a young and naive Mia. Always telling her that they could build this life together, that they would have a love the heavens would envy. Sweet words filled her mind with an unreachable fantasy, a dream of a life they would have together that would never be.
During moments like these, Dixon's young soft voice drifted through her mind. Whispering soft honeyed words against her ear, once more holding her tightly, yet not like this. This was different, this was not a hold of love but instead power, a grip that would cause her skin to bruise later. His grip slipped away and Mia breathed relief. “Babe, I was at the hospital, but I'm home now. Did something happen at work?” She curled her fingers lightly around his arm and tried to pull him closer, resting her forehead against his broad shoulder, hoping to turn the tide of this confrontation before matters took another turn.
He didn't respond to her question, standing stone-still, his eyes narrowed and boring into the opposite wall. “Don't lie, Mia. The boys think it too. They laugh and tell me I'm a moron. Just say you’re lying about working late, that you're sneaking off. That's why you've been acting so different.”
Mia tried to think of something to say, anything to calm the boiling anger lurking behind his eyes. “I've just been in a good mood lately, that’s all. I didn't realize I’d put you in that position. I would think your friends would appreciate your wife being happy.”
He yanked away from her touch. “You've been singing.” It sounded like an accusation.
Mia retreated slowly, crossing her arms and struggling not to flinch away from him.
“You haven't sung in years.” Dixon's eyes flashed dangerously, and he clenched his fist. “The last time you sang was when we were on our honeymoon.”
She cut him off, her own irritation surfacing. “I've always said I love singing, you know that. I sing when I do the dishes. I sing when I'm doing the laundry. Maybe if you’d turn the volume down on the game occasionally and listen, you’d realize that.”
Her retort hung thick in the air for a moment, and she could feel regret and fear building up inside, her stomach twisting and hands shaking. Mia never stood up for herself; she nodded, apologized, and then scurried off to whatever corner of the house she could to wait for Dixon's temper to cool. She’d never spoken back to him in their entire relationship.
And he noticed. Dixon‘s eyes narrowed further, his lip curling back. He cut the space between them in a single step, glaring down at her.
Mia shook beneath his gaze. This wasn’t his normal temper. She tried to reassure him again, but her words fell on deaf ears. Dixon reached out and grabbed her by the back of the neck, yanking her toward the living room roughly enough that she stumbled over her feet. He shoved her down onto the couch, glaring down at her. She yelped in shock rather than pain, trembling under his glare. Tears filled her eyes. “Dixon.”
Dixon crossed his arms, gritting his teeth. “We both know you're lying, Mia. Where the hell were you?!”
Frightened but also frustrated, she took a breath and kept her words soft but firm. “I was at the hospital, and then I came home. I made a short stop at the inn—you know I like the woods over there. It's been a rough day. I wanted a moment to gather myself and clear my head before I came home. I don't like to bring stress home from work.”
Her words didn’t seem to move him in the slightest. He stood perfectly still, as if waiting to hear the next excuse. Mia opted to stay silent, simply staring up at her husband with a frown. She started to push up from the couch to stand, thinking it was over for the moment.
He grabbed her by the throat this time, pressing her against the back of the couch. Mia's heart pounded, her eyes widening in alarm, her hands scrabbling uselessly at him. His grip tightened as he leaned in close, his hot breath against her face. She wanted to retch from the awful, stale scent of liquor, but she didn't have the breath. His growl vibrated the curve of her
ear.
“Don’t you ever fucking lie to me, Mia. I’ve given you everything. I work my ass off. I bought us this home. I do everything for you. You need me.”
Though she couldn't speak, rebellious thoughts flashed through her mind.
She didn’t speak - she couldn’t. Even if she physically had the ability to speak, her response would have only driven him further down the dark path he seemed fond of traveling. While he worked during the day and drank through the nights, Mia was always on call. Many nights she slept in the hospital and some weekends she never even saw Dixon. As for the house, while he did help to purchase it, Mia’s own mother paid a large sum to help them buy the lot. Her mother was so happy when she met Dixon, a sweet and honest boy, she wanted her daughter to be happy. She wanted Mia to have a better life than her mother.
This isn’t what the woman wanted for her daughter. As the thought came to mind, You didn’t buy this house. Mama gave us the down payment. And paid a fair number of mortgage payments as well. This isn’t what Mama wanted for me. And then she realized, with surprise, This isn’t what I want for me. And no… she didn't need him.
Mia dug her nails into his wrist, and he finally released her with a hiss of pain. She coughed and managed to stand, but a hard blow against her face forced a yelp of pain across her lips and sent her stumbling. She scrambled toward the front door.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going, Mia?!”
His words boomed against their thin walls, but she didn’t stop. Grabbing her coat and keys from the side table, she yanked open the door. An agonizing grip twisted her arm, trying to drag her back into the house. She struggled, finally driving her free elbow into his stomach and freeing her to dash for the safety of her car. She slammed the driver’s door and hit the locks as Dixon caught up with her.
He pounded on the roof of the car. “I swear to god, Mia, if you don’t get out of that car right now…” He didn’t finish the sentence; he didn’t have to. She knew now what he could do, what he would do to her if she got out of the car. She had to flee for her life now.
She glared at him with wet eyes, then lifted a single finger in his direction that said more than any words. She backed out into the road and sped off, away from their home. He chased her down the driveway and stood bellowing her name.
She never looked back.
The normally short drive felt like it took hours. Every stop sign had her glancing out the back window for Dixon. Every driver she passed, smiling at her in recognition, just made her shake harder, irrationally paranoid they all knew what had just happened. Her knuckles were white as she drove, just above the speed limit, and did her best to see past the tears, to keep from breaking down.
Finally, she stopped the car and stepped out.
The air around the inn was much different, quiet and calm. The usual evening breeze ruffled through the trees, and she managed to draw a full breath instead of the short gasps that had plagued her since she’d loosed Dixon’s grip on her windpipe. She ran toward a familiar door, knocking harder than usual, waiting nervously. After what felt like hours, the door finally opened, and light, surprised eyes stared back at her.
“Mia?” Vaughn's voice was tender, concerned.
She broke at the sound. Throwing her arms around his neck, the tears flowed and she sobbed freely into his shoulder.
Startled arms went around her, one moving only enough to pull her into the room and close the door. “Hey, hey.” Cool hands brushed back her hair as she shook in his arms. “I’m right here.” Hugging her closer, he allowed her to cry against his chest, resting his chin on her head. “Let it out, we’ll talk after. I’ll stay right here, okay?”
Mia nodded, clinging to her friend. She was safe.
Chapter 4
They sat in silence for what felt like hours, but it was a comfortable silence. Mia sat on the small couch pushed up against the wall, a thick quilt pulled around her slim shoulders. Her attention was focused on a small cup of steaming tea resting in her delicate hands. The warmth of steam against her face usually made her smile; however, in the current moment, nothing seemed able to crack her stone mask.
Sitting beside her on the couch, Vaughn made slow circles against her back. He allowed Mia her silence for the time being, his other hand gently applying ice against the bruise on her jaw. His fingers gingerly brushed back stray strands of her thick hair as he eyed the mark, suppressing his rage. He sighed. It was going to get worse before it got better. It didn’t need to be voiced; Mia was a nurse, after all, and knew injuries better than anyone, certainly better than himself.
“You should drink before your tea gets too cold, darling.”
“It feels good against my hands.” Her response was barely a whisper, her eyes falling shut shortly after speaking. Mia had given up crying hours before, now seeming too worn and empty for anything. Though he knew her to be often tense and sometimes nervous, Vaughn had never seen her in such a state, so consumed with fear and anxiety.
Vaughn stayed by her side through the evening, simply giving her tea and comfort. He didn’t press her for information, nor did he voice his assumptions. Obviously, Dixon had finally snapped, something Vaughn had feared for so long. From Mia's stories, Vaughn was aware the man wasn’t very stable, which he had confirmed when he sought Dixon out of his own accord. He had been quite curious about this man Mia spent her life with, traveling to the local bar to see for himself. Vaughn hadn't been impressed. The man was foul through and through, aggressive, brutish, reeking of liquor and sweat.
Setting the ice aside for the moment, he took the cup from Mia’s hands and cradled her fingers against his own palm. “Mia.” He spoke softly, squeezing gently as she finally looked up to meet his gaze, her eyes wet and uncertain of what he would say next. “We need to discuss the marks, please. I know this matter is sensitive, but I need you to trust me. I only wish you the best. I want to help you, which is something I cannot do without your compliance.”
Taking a slow breath, Mia allowed her eyes to close, and slowly nodded, straightening her spine.
“I had a fight with Dixon,” she began, her voice trembling.
Vaughn listened silently as she spoke, continuing to rub her back. It crushed him to see tears drip from her lashes, to feel her form quivering fearfully against his hand. Mia was usually such a gentle, strong woman. She deserved better than this, better than abuse and drunken stupidity.
“I came home late tonight, and he was upset. Wanted to know where I was sneaking off. He thinks I’ve been cheating on him. I-I’d never!” Mia choked on her words as her shoulders shook, pressing her face against his chest with a whimper. Vaughn sighed and wrapped his arms around her, gently kissing the top of her head, allowing Mia to let out all the tears she’d held in over the years.
“He hit you.” Vaughn kept the fury from his voice, trying to remain a calm and reassuring presence at the young woman's side. He rarely involved himself in others’ problems, but he couldn’t help himself with Mia. Something about her called to him. “Mia, please remember it is not your fault. I know you to be a good, honorable, strong woman, incapable of such cold deception. It is a weak man who strikes a woman, not a righteous one.” He stroked her hair again.
They remained that way for a time, and she eventually relaxed slightly in his arms. Then Mia’s voice, muffled by his shirt, reached his ears. “This isn’t our first fight.”
“I suspected as much.” He hadn't seen proof until tonight, but he had guessed.
She stirred against him to gaze earnestly into his face. “Dixon wasn't always like this! It was good when we were younger. Well, it was better, at least. He was a sweeter, gentler man. Nicer than most of the guys around here. We didn't always fight so much, and he used to… He didn't used to pick on me. But he's changed. He's not the man I married.”
Her hands shook, and Vaughn gently squeezed the small fists. “I understand. Some weeks ago, I went to the pub. I saw him. I must say, not a very accepting man. He had few
kind words to spare, and I dare say he seemed to sneer more than speak.”
Mia finally sighed and pulled away from Vaughn, drawing her legs close against her chest, thin arms wrapped around her knees, chin resting there as well. Vaughn wrapped a blanket around her body, ensuring the thick quilt engulfed her. He rubbed her arms as he waited for her to speak, attempting to warm any part of her still chilled from the evening air.
“He’s not very kind to strangers; he never was. It’s a small town, but that doesn’t make it right.” Mia was focused on the opposite wall opposite herself, sighing slowly before she spoke once more. This was clearly difficult for her: Mia had never opened up to him about Dixon like this. She had never voiced the fears Vaughn had suspected, never admitted the dying flame between her and her husband. “I used to love him, I think. He used to make me smile. Now, I can’t think of a single thing to like about him.” Tears fell from her cheeks again, her nails digging into the leg of her jeans.
“He used to be a baseball player; it was his dream. Of course, you know that old tale. He was injured, lost his scholarship. Others found another passion, but he never did. Dixon just went into working labor, convinced himself he liked it. The drinking started shortly. The beatings after.”
“This isn’t the first time he’s raised his hand?”
Her head shook, and Vaughn scowled darkly. His chest began to burn, and a low growl built inside his throat. Usually, Vaughn could handle his anger and maintain his composure. But the topic of Dixon always tested his will. The man struck a nerve deep inside, flaming to life a rage Vaughn had not felt in years. Mia seemed to bring out emotions he’d thought long locked away. Reaching out, he brushed his fingers gently against her cheek, comforted as she leaned into his touch.
“Please, continue to speak. I shall get us drinks. I feel that drinks are very important right now.” Standing, Vaughn made his way toward the kitchen and fetched a small bottle of whiskey. Pouring half a finger into two small glasses, he set down the bottle, smiling. “I usually have wine; however, it seems these hard drinks are the common choice in these parts.” He handed her a glass. Mia gave a weak thank-you, then tossed back the drink with a minor wince. He poured her another. “I know it means little now, but I must say I am terribly sorry you had to bear this alone. I must ask, why not simply leave him?”
