The Sting of Nettles
She had no defence against accusations conjured from paranoia. Nothing she said could possibly demonstrate the depth of pain his words inflicted. But he continued to throw the same distorted allusions at her face, never actually saying the big thing he really believed. As if the big thing was so unspeakable. As if she knew what the big thing actually was.
“I never did anything . . .”
“Bitch. You know what you did. You sleazy . . .”
“I’m not. I’ve never . . .”
“That’s what you always say. Do you think I’m some kind of fool? That you can do whatever you want and then say I didn’t realise? You can’t play your stupid games on me. I know, bitch.”
And just when she thought it was over, when he seemed empty of venom, almost ready to listen, it would begin all over again. Words erupting with volcanic urgency, burning her senses.
The tears she cried washed nothing away.
They walked as far down the field as they could and came up against the wire fencing that held the wilderness back. Nettles pushed through, holding up flower heads – bunches of tiny, swollen buds. She reached out and grabbed, crushing them into her hand. White welts burst out all over her palm and between her fingers, showing starkly against the red of her skin. For a few minutes she had no idea which hurt worse, engulfed in the flame that shot between heart and hand.
But her pain remained invisible. Rather than hold her emblazoned hand high in accusation, she cupped her palm and held it close against her stomach as she walked back to the house.
The day she finally left him, he could not understand why.