Medic’s Equitable Divorce
When they were first married, Karl had repeatedly told her how much he loved her hair. He would sit for hours, the bright gold mass spread over his lap, brush in hand, stroking it lovingly like one would pet a cat. He forbade her to cut it, watching with pride as it grew ever longer down her back.
He bought her lovely things, silk ribbons, ornate wood and metal barrettes studded with gems, brushes and combs aplenty. It wasn’t like he couldn’t afford these things. He was a physician, on the cutting edge of science with his experimentations and able to keep people alive when any other physician would have given up and administered a fatal dose of morphine to end their suffering. She had been so proud of him then.
She still remembered those days, when he would come home from work and sit on the sofa, pat his knee as she knelt at his feet and placed her head in his lap, his fingers sinking into the mass of her hair, losing the tensions of the day as his fingers worked through it.
The first time he struck her, she’d been teasing him and spoken of going to the hair salon for a trim. It had been a jest, she hadn’t expected the open handed slap that staggered her backward, bringing immediate tears to her blue eyes. He’d knelt beside her then, pulled her hand from her face, eyed the cheek she’d been protectively cupping.
He frowned then. “Really, Madeline, it’s barely even red. Stop being a baby.” He’d cupped her chin then, forcing her to look into his eyes. “This was your own fault. You do understand that, right? ” Don’t ever speak of trimming your hair again.”
She’d nodded, afraid to argue with him, the cold steel of his eyes boring into her own. After that, she’d tried to be more careful. And then this job with the American company had been offered to him. He’d agreed readily, moving them over the ocean without even consulting her, leaving her for long periods of time in a tiny house in a tiny town where she could barely speak the language, where everyone eyed her like she was an unwanted plague and whispered “Nazi.” behind her back.
Karl, who should have been her refuge, changed as well, growing colder and more intractable as the years passed. The single, open handed slap was no longer the end of it, instead becoming close fisted beatings that left her whimpering in pain as she tried to please him, tried to calm him. He no longer brought her lovely trinkets for her hair. Instead, it was more common for him to wrap his hands in it, force her to her knees and do things to her that would make a devil blush. She sank into herself, growing more quiet, smiling less, but always taking care to make sure that her hair was as thick and lustrous as when they had first met. She still had not cut it, a lesson learned in the beginning.
As her grasp of the language spoken by those around her improved, she became more accepted in the community, fewer slurs behind her back as she walked down the streets, more people smiling at her, and she always smiled in return. It would not do to let them know the hell she lived in, she always wore long sleeves, long pants, no matter how hot the day, to make certain the bruises did not show. Sunglasses became an essential part of her wardrobe. Those around her, her neighbors, chalked it up to “foreign ways' ' and did not ask questions.
Karl began to visit for shorter and shorter periods of time. It was a relief to be alone. And then, one day while she did the shopping, she met a man. He was tall, with dark skin and short curly hair, a patch over one eye and an easy manner about him. He helped her carry groceries to her car, asked about her accent, his own was so thick she could smell the heather. She’d smiled then, a genuine smile, told him about the time when, as a child, she’d visited the town of Inverness, the beauty of the lochs and moors.
He’d invited himself to her home for coffee, one thing led to another and within a few weeks, she found herself, in her bedroom, letting her hair down for this handsome Scot, laying long in the bed and laughing over breakfast with him. The lonely hole in her heart slowly began to fill with sweetness.
She knew that she would have to tell Karl. She’d discussed it with her handsome one eyed demoman as they lay in the bed, glasses of brandy in their hands, both staring into the amber depths as the warmth added to the heat already in their bodies. She’d been so certain that, given Karl’s harshness with her, he would not care. Lachlan had asked to be there, but she’d told him no, knowing that her husband, although sworn to uphold the sanctity of life, was a dangerous man when angered. She did not want to see him harmed. She did not want to see how she was treated. It shamed her to even think of Lachlan knowing.
When the day arrived, she’d fussed around the house nervously, binding up her long hair and tying a kerchief around it. She’d waited by the front door, watching anxiously for Karl to stride up the cracked concrete walkway. She realized suddenly that the twisting knot of nerves in her stomach was not fear, but hope, hope that she would finally be free of him and his bullish ways.
When at last he came into their small home, taking off his jacket and tossing it on the couch for her to put away later, she’d simply stood by the door, not gotten on her knees and gone to lay her head in his lap as he expected. He’d sat on the couch for a moment, watching her with a surprised look on his face. At last, he pointed to his lap and made a motion for her to come. She’d frowned.
“Karl, we have to talk.” She’d stayed by the door, watching him warily.
He sighed. “Madeline.” He shifted on the couch, leaned his head back. “If you are still upset about last month, don’t be such a baby. I did not hurt you that badly. You recovered, did you not?” He raised his head and pinned her with his icy blue gaze. “You don’t want to go through that again, do you?”
She shook her head, remembering all too well the slow fading bruises, the ache that had invaded her very bones, lasting for over two weeks before she was able to walk without a limp. “I’ve met someone.” She blurted it out, thrown off guard by the memories. “I want to be with him, not you any longer. I want a divorce.”
Karl’s eyes widened for a moment, the dark lock of hair she’d found so attractive in the beginning flopping over his forehead. Suddenly he began to laugh. “A divorce. Madeline.” He stood then, stalking toward her, his movements slow and graceful as a cat’s. She backed up against the door, hand on the knob. “You have been in America too long. You forget, Leibe, I own you.” He’d lunged then, hand wrapping around her slender wrist and squeezing tightly.
She screamed as bones grated against each other, beating on his chest with her free hand. He ignored her attempts to fend him off. “You are mine!” He snarled the words in her face, his eyes savage and cold as he stared into her face, searching it for something. At last, seeming to find what he sought, he grinned, a smile that she’d never seen on his face before. It transformed his features into a demon’s mask, no longer the man she’d been with for so long. He began to drag her behind him then, into the kitchen.
She planted her feet and tried to fight, but he was unstoppable. At last, reaching the kitchen island, he swept it clear with his arm and, grabbing her around the waist, he slammed her onto it so hard that the breath left her body, she was left dizzy, sucking in air, unable to fight.
Her hands were bound quickly, he’d used her own dish towels to do the job. Pulling off his belt, he then bound her feet, bent at the knee, draped over the end of the tall wooden island. He snatched the kerchief from her hair, gasping as it flooded down toward the floor, a golden waterfall. He turned from her then, rummaging in a drawer until he found what he was looking for, a sharp fillet knife that she used for fish.
He held the knife up near his face, an expression of pure evil shining across his features. “I only value you for one thing, Hure, and you will not take that thing with you.” He walked toward her then, gleaming knife in hand and she screamed.
She tried to fight but was unable to get her hands or feet free. He wrapped his left hand in her hair, pulling sharply backward, forcing her head down on the table. With his right hand, he brought the knife closer and closer to her hairline, finally sinking the blade in, forcing it under her skin in a blaze of white hot pain. She could feel the blood beginning to trickle down her face, the skin of her scalp lifting upwards under his careful slices. She tried to fight, tried to toss her head from side to side, anything to escape the blaze of pain that his blade heralded. And still, he worked, as calm and sure in his movements as only a trained surgeon could be. He parted her scalp from her skull, one millimeter at a time, working slowly and carefully to avoid ruining his work.
Gradually, her voice broke and she could hear the things he was murmuring under his breath, the little coos of pleasure that accompanied each stroke of his blade. It was disgusting, causing her stomach to churn and roil. She feared what vomiting would do, could not imagine he would stop long enough to let her turn her head and not choke on her own foulness.
She heard a dim patter, like rain on a window, and, in her pain and confusion, she remembered thinking, “That’s funny. The sky was blue when Karl came in.” She realized later that it was the sound of her blood, pouring from the horrific wound and off the edges of the table to patter on the floor, a never ending sound that would forever after make her cover her ears when it rained. She looked up at Karl as he continued to work. “Why?” She screamed, “Why, Karl?”
He stepped away from the table at last, holding something in his hand. She screamed again when she saw it, the blood matted blonde hair hanging limply in his hand like a Halloween wig. He looked at her and chuckled, laying the bloody knife in the sink. “Divorces are messy, Madeline, with everyone fighting over who gets what. I hate the drama, the courtrooms.” He shuddered delicately at the thought. “You can have the house, meine süßeste Liebe, and the car. I have what I want right here.” He turned then and, grabbing his jacket from the sofa, left the house.
