A RUDE AWAKENING

Like most Monday nights, Sarah Brockman found herself in bed alone.  She stretched, twisted and turned, trying to find the right spot to sleep in since she didn’t have her husband as her buffer.

After ten minutes of wriggling, Sarah sat up.

Her husband was off, as usual, in Cleveland or Chicago, New York or L.A.  Some place other than home.  Attending to business, he always said.

Probably to get back at me, she thought.  Since her own stepping out, Sarah had long wondered if Mark’s business came in the short/petite or Amazonian/statuesque variety.

She hated him for leaving her in this big house alone though her pushing him away didn’t help matters.  She hated the weird creaks and moans of the settling house.  At least once a night, she reached over to her nightstand for the mace or the steak knife she kept there.  Her husband called her paranoid.  She preferred the term cautious.

Sarah ran her fingers through her pale, golden hair before finally falling back onto the mattress and closing her eyes.

“Just fall asleep,” she whispered.  She grabbed her husband’s pillows from his side of the bed and pressed them close to her, digging her slender fingers into the pillowcase.

The shattering of glass startled her.  She leapt from the bed and grabbed her knife, the mace, and the phone on the nightstand.  She raced into the walk-in closet and sat on the floor.  Her fingers shook, but she managed to hit ‘Talk’ on the phone.  No dial tone.  Tears streamed down her sun-kissed cheeks.  Clothes, swaying on their hangers, brushed her shoulders.  Through the thin slats on the bottom half of the door, Sarah saw the grayness of the room.

“God, please, don’t let this person hurt me,” she whispered up through her clothes, hoping her message reached heaven.

Even from the closet, Sarah heard the soft whoosh of the bedroom door opening.  She rubbed her stomach and swallowed down a lump of vomit and a scream.

She breathed into the phone, wishing there was someone on the other end to help her.

Through the slats, Sarah saw the shades of darkness change in the bedroom from a dark gray to black.  The intruder stood just inches from her.

Her fingers itched to hold onto her rosary and pray.  She needed some thing or some higher being to tell her that she would be okay because she didn’t believe it.

Amidst the silence and the fear, Sarah couldn’t help but wonder why the alarm didn’t go off.

The door opened.

Sarah screamed as she stared into the barrel of a gun.

The mace, the knife, and the phone slid from her hand, thudding onto the carpeted floor.

Seconds ticked by as they stared each other down.  Sarah saw nothing but black—the intruder’s black clothing, gloves, mask, scully cap, gun.

But it was the eyes, all big and brown and full of menace.  She could have sworn she had seen them before, but she’d never known anyone in her life so full of hate.

“Please,” she said, “you can have anything you want, just please don’t hurt me.  “I’m…”

The intruder grunted.  “This ain’t even about you, bitch,” he interrupted.  He then laughed, the sound so chilling Sarah closed her eyes tight to keep from seeing one who could be so evil.

“My sweet Sarah,” the intruder said.

Her face slackened.  She recognized the voice.

She never opened her eyes again.

CHAPTER 1

Jovan Parham Anderson gripped the wrinkled silk sheets and gritted her teeth as her husband thrust himself into her.

“Relax, Jo,” Cordell whispered.  “Stop being so uptight.”

Jovan closed her eyes as they began to well up with tears.

Relax? she thought.  You bastard.

She sucked in a deep breath as Cordell’s hands took hold of her breasts and tweaked her nipples, a move that would have normally excited her now made her stomach lurch.

Jovan moved her arms around to Cordell’s back and dug her nails deep.

“That’s it,” he grunted in her ear.  “Hurt me, baby.”

Cordell grabbed Jovan’s full hips and rammed into her, causing her to cry out.

“Yes.” He groaned.

“Cordell,” Jovan said, panting, “you’re hurting me.  Slow down.”

Jovan pressed her hands against his chest, but he hunkered down and pumped ferociously inside her.

“Stop,” Jovan yelled.

A deep rumbling sound erupted from his mouth, and Jovan knew he was about to orgasm.  He lowered his head and took one of her nipples into his mouth.  He nipped it.

Jovan yelped and began hitting him in the face.

“Stop, Cordell,” she said.  “Please, you’re hurting me.”

In a flash, Cordell had her hands above her head; he never lost his deep, quick rhythm inside her.

“Don’t ever hit me again,” he said in a low voice.

Jovan’s eyes widened and tears leaked from them, sliding down into her ears.

She watched as Cordell’s eyes rolled up into his head.  He bit his lower lip.

“Unh,” he moaned.  “I’m there.”

He pushed himself as far into Jovan as he could as his moans overshadowed her screams.

He fell upon Jovan and for several moments, the only thing that could be heard was Cordell’s heavy breathing and Jovan’s whimpers.

“For God’s sakes,” he said, “stop your crying.”  He rolled over, sitting up, and placed his feet on the floor.  “You do your womanly duties, and I wouldn’t have to stay all pent up and act like this.”

“I asked you to stop, Cordell,” Jovan said.  She opened her eyes and stared at his smooth, brown back.  “You come in here past one in the morning, frustrated over work, and think you can just take me when you want?”

The sirens from police cars silenced their argument, temporarily.

Cordell jumped from the bed and spun around.  “Jo, stop being a bitch and get over it.  You’re my wife, right?”

She stared for a while before nodding.

“Get over it,” he repeated.  He snatched his black slacks off the back of the chair in the corner of the bedroom.

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