"I
love you."
I
punched him.
"I
love you."
I
punched him again. Blood was pouring down his face.
"Baby.
I love you."
I
wasn't about to stop punching him anytime soon. I wished he would stop saying that.
I wished he would stop talking forever.
"I
love you. Hit me again."
I
punched his face again. He was just standing there, in his socks and boxer
briefs. He had an incredible body. The skin on my knuckles was split, and was
starting to ooze blood slightly. My blood and his blood were mixing on the back
of my hand. I saw this and it made me ill. I punched him again.
"I
love you."
What
was wrong with this man? He was depraved. A pervert. He wanted to be hated and
dominated. Women feel like this all the time. I have felt like this most of my
life. I related to him. I wanted to be him. Every time I hit him, I wished it
was me, and something dead surged up inside me, tingling through my arms and
balled up fists. I spit on his face and he smiled.
He
is not a pervert. No more than everyone else. He just likes to be punched in
the face. I punched him again. Blood squirted out of his eye. His face was
beginning to look a little less human. Again and again and again.
"You're
beautiful. I love you."
My
hand stopped hurting. It was numb. I drank some water. We lay down. I closed my
eyes and tried to fall asleep. My hand started to throb again. I could hear him
gurgle every time he breathed. There was a high-pitched hiss coming from his
nose. When he blinked it sounded like someone stirring oatmeal. I became quite
nauseated.
I
leapt onto him. I punched him again. He had lost teeth. I didn't notice that
earlier. He tried to say I love you, but I couldn't understand him. I was more
and more revolted by him. He was a completely benign person. He just lied
there, begging to be hit.
I
slapped him. He moaned.
I
became tired again. I rolled off of him, and went into the kitchen. I opened
the fridge. There were mostly condiments. There was a ham on rye sandwich behind
the sour milk that looked to be over a month old. I opened the plastic wrap and
inspected the sandwich. It had lettuce, and mustard and mayo. It was the most
standard sandwich I have ever come across.
I sat at the kitchen table and ate the sandwich.
Kendra Grant Malone is the fucking saddest girl you know. She has been published at Literary Tonic, Zygote in My Coffee, and Pineapple War. She has a blog called Tricoteuse and also writes for DRUNK. Kendra lives in New York and loves her cat Delores.