A Season in Hell II

His hands are at my throat, choking me, slowly choking me to death. He’s squeezing me so hard I can hear my neck break–snap, snap, like a chicken bone. Will he pluck me, too? I see feathers, many bloody feathers on the ratty grey rug. Each of them has a bone in it, this I am sure of. Now I see my husband’s hands, the reddish hair on his hands, how it nearly bristles. Now I see his long boney fingers, the cracked nails bitten down. The hiss of his breath is pissing down my neck. I’m trying to buck him off, but he’s strong, like a wrestler, and I’m just a lightweight pinned to the exploding floor. Where are my meds? I’ve got to down my meds. Gobble, gobble. Gobble, gobble.

Filed under: Elizabeth Kirschner, Prose