She scrubbed the sticky residue that was left behind on the cheap linoleum floor. The sting of the hot water and pine-scented cleaner turned her hands red. She promised herself that next time, she’d stand up to him. That next time, he’d know this wasn’t okay. That next time she’d call the cops, if he got violent.
She sat back on her heels and sighed. In an abrupt and unwelcome moment of honesty, she acknowledged to herself that no, next time wouldn’t be different. She wouldn’t stand up to him, for fear of making it worse. And she wouldn’t bother to call the cops, assuming she could get to the phone. She knew deep down that they would believe him over her. That the good ol’ boy image he had cultivated would blind their eyes, and she’d wind up worse off than if she had never said anything at all.
There was a reason he had a clean record, despite his heavy handed ways. His public image was squeaky clean. It wasn’t until you got behind closed doors that things got messy.
This was written for week 19 of the Trifecta Writing Challenge. The word this week was clean.
Slightly Similar Nonsense:
- Broken Glass
- Vulgarity of Everyday Life
- Dose Of Happy Monday: Clean Kitchens
- I wrote a poem, for you.
- (Vlog)All of Them AND Crazy Eyes