The first time Clarissa smacked him, Thomas had laughed.
It was late spring in Providence, 1987. They were walking along the river, dodging stray bicyclists and the occasional overgrown tree branch. The air smelled of damp earth and freshly cut grass. Clarissa, feisty and full of life, had just made a joke about his terrible sense of direction.
"Honestly, Thomas, I don't even know how you manage to find your way to class every morning," she teased.
She gave him a light slap on the arm - a playful tap, a gesture that felt more like punctuation to her words than anything else.
He grinned, rubbing his arm dramatically. "Oh no, you've wounded me," he said, feigning hurt.
Clarissa rolled her eyes but smiled. He loved that smile - mischievous, full of fire.
The slaps became part of their relationship, small, teasing gestures that meant I adore you. You're mine. We belong to each other. A tap on the shoulder when he said something dumb. A soft smack on the cheek when he made her laugh too hard. A swat on the butt when they were alone, playful and flirtatious.
By the time they were married, those little touches had become second nature.
For years, Thomas saw them as part of their rhythm.
Until, at some point, they weren't playful anymore.
---
A sharp crack broke the quiet of the kitchen.
The coffee spoon slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the tile floor.
Thomas barely flinched. He had long stopped reacting. He simply stood at the counter, fingers tightening around his mug as the sting bloomed across his cheek. He could already feel it beginning to swell.
Clarissa, standing in her silk robe by the refrigerator, barely looked at him. "You left the bathroom a mess again," she muttered, her tone casual, almost bored. She yawned and reached for the orange juice.
Thomas turned away, swallowing hard. He didn't argue. He didn't bother. He just grabbed his work bag, stepped past her, and left the house without another word.
Outside, the morning air was cold against his face, but it did nothing to cool the heat on his cheek. He could feel it pulsing, the red imprint of her palm marking him like a brand. As he started his car, he caught his reflection in the rearview mirror. The mark was already darkening.
By the time he got to work, it was impossible to hide.
---
"Jesus, Tom. She clocked you good this time."
The break room was stale with the scent of burnt coffee and microwaved leftovers. A few of his coworkers leaned against the counter, watching him with poorly disguised amusement.
Thomas forced a laugh, pretending to rub his jaw as if it didn't hurt. "Ah, you know. I was being a smartass."
Kevin, his supervisor, shook his head, grinning. "Damn, man. You sure she's not training to be a boxer?"
Laughter rippled through the room.
Thomas chuckled along with them, but it felt hollow. He wished they would stop. He wished someone - anyone - would look at him differently, with something other than amusement. But they never did.
They didn't believe it was serious.
Maybe that was the worst part.
---
It started small.
The teasing slaps got a little sharper. A little less playful.
At first, Thomas told himself it was nothing. A bad day. A stressful week. When she smacked him hard enough for his cheek to sting, she would laugh it off, say you're so sensitive or come on, don't be such a baby.
And he believed her.
Because they were in love, right?
But then it wasn't just the slaps. It was the way she spoke to him. The little digs. The way her affection curdled into something else, something mean.
At some point, he realized he was walking on eggshells.
Trying not to say anything that would set her off.
Trying not to become a joke in his own home.
---
He was still seething when he got home.
The house was quiet when he walked in, but the tension clung to the air like a storm waiting to break. Clarissa was sitting at the kitchen table, filing her nails, barely acknowledging him.
"Dinner's in the microwave," she said, flipping the nail file in her hand. "You're welcome."
Thomas tossed his bag onto the counter, his jaw tight. "You embarrassed me today."
Clarissa barely looked up. "What are you talking about now?"
"My face." He turned slightly, letting her see the bruise in the fading evening light. "The guys at work think it's funny. Like I'm some kind of joke."
She smirked, tapping a polished nail against her glass of wine. "Well, if you weren't such a - "
He hit her before he even realized he'd moved.
The sound of the slap echoed through the kitchen, followed by the dull thud of the wine glass tipping over, rolling against the wood.
Clarissa lifted her hand to her cheek, fingers trembling against the shock of what had just happened. Slowly, she turned her head back toward him, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted.
For the first time in years, she looked at him differently. Not with amusement. Not with disdain. With something else.
His pulse pounded in his ears. His breath came fast, shallow.
Never, in all their years together, had he raised a hand to her. Not once.
He wasn't even the kind of man who slammed doors, who snapped back, who let anger turn to cruelty. He was the man who bit his tongue. Who took a deep breath. Who walked away.
But he hadn't walked away this time.
Clarissa made a sound - half gasp, half choke - and tried to push herself up from the chair. Her knee buckled. She teetered.
And then she was falling.
The back of her head struck the corner of the table. The sound was dull. Wet.
Thomas's stomach lurched.
She crumpled to the floor in an instant, her body limp, the silk of her robe pooling around her. A crimson smear streaked the edge of the table.
"Clarissa?" His voice barely came out. His knees hit the floor beside her.
She wasn't moving.
The room blurred. His breath came in ragged gasps.
He touched her face, her skin already cooling beneath his fingertips. His chest constricted, his mind screaming at him to do something, anything - but all he could do was stare at her, his vision swimming with unshed tears.
A broken sob tore from his throat. His hands curled around her shoulders, shaking her gently.
"Clarissa, wake up. Please."
His breath hitched.
"I love you."
His fingers clenched around the fabric of her robe, desperate. His voice cracked, high and frantic.
"Please, hit me again."
The house was silent.
For the first time in years? too silent.
And that silence was unbearable...
It was late spring in Providence, 1987. They were walking along the river, dodging stray bicyclists and the occasional overgrown tree branch. The air smelled of damp earth and freshly cut grass. Clarissa, feisty and full of life, had just made a joke about his terrible sense of direction.
"Honestly, Thomas, I don't even know how you manage to find your way to class every morning," she teased.
She gave him a light slap on the arm - a playful tap, a gesture that felt more like punctuation to her words than anything else.
He grinned, rubbing his arm dramatically. "Oh no, you've wounded me," he said, feigning hurt.
Clarissa rolled her eyes but smiled. He loved that smile - mischievous, full of fire.
The slaps became part of their relationship, small, teasing gestures that meant I adore you. You're mine. We belong to each other. A tap on the shoulder when he said something dumb. A soft smack on the cheek when he made her laugh too hard. A swat on the butt when they were alone, playful and flirtatious.
By the time they were married, those little touches had become second nature.
For years, Thomas saw them as part of their rhythm.
Until, at some point, they weren't playful anymore.
---
A sharp crack broke the quiet of the kitchen.
The coffee spoon slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the tile floor.
Thomas barely flinched. He had long stopped reacting. He simply stood at the counter, fingers tightening around his mug as the sting bloomed across his cheek. He could already feel it beginning to swell.
Clarissa, standing in her silk robe by the refrigerator, barely looked at him. "You left the bathroom a mess again," she muttered, her tone casual, almost bored. She yawned and reached for the orange juice.
Thomas turned away, swallowing hard. He didn't argue. He didn't bother. He just grabbed his work bag, stepped past her, and left the house without another word.
Outside, the morning air was cold against his face, but it did nothing to cool the heat on his cheek. He could feel it pulsing, the red imprint of her palm marking him like a brand. As he started his car, he caught his reflection in the rearview mirror. The mark was already darkening.
By the time he got to work, it was impossible to hide.
---
"Jesus, Tom. She clocked you good this time."
The break room was stale with the scent of burnt coffee and microwaved leftovers. A few of his coworkers leaned against the counter, watching him with poorly disguised amusement.
Thomas forced a laugh, pretending to rub his jaw as if it didn't hurt. "Ah, you know. I was being a smartass."
Kevin, his supervisor, shook his head, grinning. "Damn, man. You sure she's not training to be a boxer?"
Laughter rippled through the room.
Thomas chuckled along with them, but it felt hollow. He wished they would stop. He wished someone - anyone - would look at him differently, with something other than amusement. But they never did.
They didn't believe it was serious.
Maybe that was the worst part.
---
It started small.
The teasing slaps got a little sharper. A little less playful.
At first, Thomas told himself it was nothing. A bad day. A stressful week. When she smacked him hard enough for his cheek to sting, she would laugh it off, say you're so sensitive or come on, don't be such a baby.
And he believed her.
Because they were in love, right?
But then it wasn't just the slaps. It was the way she spoke to him. The little digs. The way her affection curdled into something else, something mean.
At some point, he realized he was walking on eggshells.
Trying not to say anything that would set her off.
Trying not to become a joke in his own home.
---
He was still seething when he got home.
The house was quiet when he walked in, but the tension clung to the air like a storm waiting to break. Clarissa was sitting at the kitchen table, filing her nails, barely acknowledging him.
"Dinner's in the microwave," she said, flipping the nail file in her hand. "You're welcome."
Thomas tossed his bag onto the counter, his jaw tight. "You embarrassed me today."
Clarissa barely looked up. "What are you talking about now?"
"My face." He turned slightly, letting her see the bruise in the fading evening light. "The guys at work think it's funny. Like I'm some kind of joke."
She smirked, tapping a polished nail against her glass of wine. "Well, if you weren't such a - "
He hit her before he even realized he'd moved.
The sound of the slap echoed through the kitchen, followed by the dull thud of the wine glass tipping over, rolling against the wood.
Clarissa lifted her hand to her cheek, fingers trembling against the shock of what had just happened. Slowly, she turned her head back toward him, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted.
For the first time in years, she looked at him differently. Not with amusement. Not with disdain. With something else.
His pulse pounded in his ears. His breath came fast, shallow.
Never, in all their years together, had he raised a hand to her. Not once.
He wasn't even the kind of man who slammed doors, who snapped back, who let anger turn to cruelty. He was the man who bit his tongue. Who took a deep breath. Who walked away.
But he hadn't walked away this time.
Clarissa made a sound - half gasp, half choke - and tried to push herself up from the chair. Her knee buckled. She teetered.
And then she was falling.
The back of her head struck the corner of the table. The sound was dull. Wet.
Thomas's stomach lurched.
She crumpled to the floor in an instant, her body limp, the silk of her robe pooling around her. A crimson smear streaked the edge of the table.
"Clarissa?" His voice barely came out. His knees hit the floor beside her.
She wasn't moving.
The room blurred. His breath came in ragged gasps.
He touched her face, her skin already cooling beneath his fingertips. His chest constricted, his mind screaming at him to do something, anything - but all he could do was stare at her, his vision swimming with unshed tears.
A broken sob tore from his throat. His hands curled around her shoulders, shaking her gently.
"Clarissa, wake up. Please."
His breath hitched.
"I love you."
His fingers clenched around the fabric of her robe, desperate. His voice cracked, high and frantic.
"Please, hit me again."
The house was silent.
For the first time in years? too silent.
And that silence was unbearable...
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