Free To Mervas by Elisabeth Rynell

whimpering something and I can finally hear what she’s saying.
    â€œDon’t let the children see . . . don’t let the children see . . . don’t let the children see,” she repeats indistinctly.
    â€œSilence! They’ll see. They’re going to see what you’re worth. They’re going to see who their mother really is underneath this robe. They’ll learn how a bitch like you should be treated.”
    He pulls at her clothes and finally gets her garter belt to slide up until it sits like a belt around her belly while her blouse is inside out, covering her face and head. The words are still streaming out of her mouth, she’s half-crying and her voice is shrill and we hear her repeat:
    â€œDon’t let the children see . . . don’t let the children see . . . don’t let the children see . . .”
    She struggles and fights back in a way we’ve never seen her do when Dad has hit her. But this is different. He’s never undressed her before, and now he also begins to whip her with the carpet beater, on her legs, wherever he can reach.
    â€œNow shut up and be still, or I’ll tie you up the way you bind a sow,” he pants between the blows.
    Then he forces her onto her stomach and I hear her sob and cry while the carpet beater hits her buttocks and thighs.
    My youngest sister, who was only about one at this time, comes crying from the bedroom. She totters over to my sister and curls up next to her. This makes Dad pause for a moment.
    â€œTurn off the ceiling light,” he orders. “Turn off all the lights!”
    We do as he says. At once, the small apartment is filled with darkness and suddenly everyone’s breathing can be heard. Our shallow, terrified breathing, my little sister’s sobs, Mom’s soundless tears, and above all and over everything else, Dad’s panting, growing deeper. He has stopped beating her and in the dimness he and Mom look like one body there on the couch.
    â€œWhat is Daddy doing now?” one of my brothers asks when the sounds and movements from the couch turn increasingly strange.
    â€œHush, hush,” I tell him, and my sister gets him to stay quiet. After this, the five of us sit motionless in the dark, letting everything happen. I join my hands as in prayer, but they’re cramping and I can’t pray; my heart feels paralyzed and I’m afraid of everything I don’t understand. Let it end, is all I can think. Let it end.
    Dad groans. He groans again, louder. Then everything grows silent. Completely silent. It’s as if everything that’s alive has suddenly escaped from the apartment, as if nothing were left but the darkness and the occasional sounds from outside; a car starting, a door slamming, the sound ofsteps against asphalt.
    Eventually, we hear Dad getting up and straightening his clothes. His white underwear glints like the sliver of a moon through the darkness. He clears his throat.
    â€œYou can turn the lights back on,” he says in a calm and steady voice. “The husband has fulfilled his duty. The degenerate sow got what she deserved.”
    The room turns blindingly bright. Mom tries to pull her top back down with one hand, while the other gropes around her as if she’s searching for something. My older sister rushes toward the muumuu that has ended up on the floor, but Dad grabs her wrist and stops her from giving it to Mom.
    â€œBehold your mother,” he says, and gestures dramatically at her where she sits half-naked on the couch.
    After this, he forces us to get in line and go up to him one after the other and kiss him good night on the lips and say:
    â€œGood night, Father dear.”
    Right before he leaves us, he slams his heels together and bursts out:
    â€œOrder has been established.”
    But Mom’s gaze moves straight through the walls. It rises from her beaten, black and blue swollen face and the room explodes.

February 11
    One day when I