Cycle

A Story by Solar

A short drabble about a woman named Rebekah and her abusive husband Mitchel.

Stealing the motorcycle had been easy. Mitchel always left the key in his jeans, and it was easy for Rebekah to pocket them as she did the laundry. Sneaking out, however, had been more of a task. It always was. But it had been far too long since she had gotten out of the house, and if she had to stay in the cramped living space with the constant slamming doors and shouting then she would finally go insane. Which is what led her to crushing up some sleeping pills and quietly depositing the powder into the beer she had been ordered to bring him. The act was premeditated of course, the powder had been in a small baggie. Because, as Rebekah knew from experience, her husband was an impatient man. It was in her interest to follow every “”request”” as quickly and quietly as she could. Which is exactly why she needed to get out. The combination of alcohol and sleeping pills was a dangerous one, but Rebekah couldn't find it in herself to care if he never woke up. When it was apparent that Mitchel was deeply asleep, she took the keys to the motorcycle and left.

The rumble of the engine and the wind through her hair made Rebekah feel almost free again. Nevermind the fact that she would have to return to her abuser, and that upon finding out she had taken his beloved bike for a joy ride - he always found out - she would likely be beaten. It wasn't even a risk anymore, she knew what would happen. And yet she continued to take off on midnight rides with no real destination in mind. Up and down the lesser-used back-roads that skirted towards the nature reserve. Not caring if the damaged roads and high speeds made her crash, instead high on adrenaline and fantasies of finally leaving Mitchell. How she would, one day, march into the police station and turn him in. The satisfaction of him being behind bars for the rest of his life. Of course, Rebekah knew that she could do that at any point, and always could have. She also knew that she would never do it. Something always came up. Between money and family tragedies it was never a good time to leave the money her husband provided. Divorces and court cases weren't cheap.

Mitchel was awake when she walked in the door. This was worse. If Rebekah could have made it until the morning until him finding out, then it wouldn't have been as bad. Normally she would just go limp and silent, shut herself inside her mind, and wait it out. Wait for her body to give up and pass out due to the amount of pain and likely blood loss. Wake up on the kitchen floor, pull herself up using the counter, treat her wounds with Tylenol and a battered first aid kit she'd hidden in the bathroom cabinets years ago. Then clean the house of her blood and have breakfast on the table by the time Mitchel woke up. A dutiful housewife.

Maybe it was the lingering high from escaping for just a moment, maybe she had just had enough. Whatever reason it was, this time she screamed. Called and begged for help. This only enraged Mitchel, and his more powerful blows made Rebekah lift her arms to try and block some of the damage. Evidently, the neighbors didn't care about seeing her covered in bruises, crying on her own doorstep. But when it began disturbing their sleep, it became a problem. Unfortunately the grand rescue she had sometimes imagined wasn't going to happen.

The door had been left open. And upon seeing an unfamiliar man in his doorway, Mitchel's first reaction was the same as his reaction to everything that displeased him. Violence. The gunshot rang in Rebekah's ears as the elderly neighbor fell to the ground with a bullet hole in his face.

For a moment afterwards, it was quiet. And then Mitchel grabbed Rebekah's arm and hauled her to her feet.

"You will take the fall for this."