Here’s an example of some writing I did a while back. I hate posting snippets of my work because I never feel it’s good enough. And maybe that will make me a great writer some day.
He should never have grabbed her neck with one hand and locked his hand around her wrist with the other. Saliva coated the side of her face as he’d hissed ugly words through gritted teeth. Five years ago she would have excused the bruises and broken bones, saying she had fallen or stumbled. Drug store makeup would have been applied with a spatula to hide bruises and cuts — long sleeved tops and jeans hid the rest.
But not now. Not ever again. Ten years of abuse, fear and rejection had led to that moment. The moment where she had struck back at him. And so, he lay lifeless on the kitchen floor. She leaned against the fridge and slowly let herself slide onto the marble tiles beside him.
No pulse. No breathing. No worries.
The bottle of scotch that she had hit him with lay a few feet away. The brown liquid wasn’t responsible for his atrocities. Oh no. The monster had lurked below, waiting, watching for a moment to break loose and punish her for existing. Without the alcohol he was bitter, sarcastic and mostly passive. With it, well, the scars on her skin said enough.
She looked at the phone beside her. She’d already called the police. Why not? It’s not like her life had anywhere to go from there, it’s not like they wouldn’t know who did it. She deserved what was coming. Probably. Most daughters loved their fathers, but she’d hated him. Every. Single. Part of him.
There were other scars on her body. Self-inflicted ones. Her skin was his skin, she shared in his DNA and the burning, the melting of her skin made her ugly, made her disgusting, but most of all it made her look nothing like him. So every night she used fire to heat metal and press it against herself hoping that it would be enough to relieve her anxiety. It worked, but only for a moment. It was never enough, it would never be enough.
Every bruise he left on her face, every cut, changed how she looked. And it made her happy in a crazy sort of way. The pain felt better than anything else and now all of that pain would disappear. How would she cope without it?
But it was over and she felt relief, no remorse, only fear of the future. And as the police entered the house, she smiled when they cuffed her. She was leaving hell. The monster was dead and she felt good that one more evil person was removed from the world.