Frozen Soul

Trigger Warning: This story contains sensitive material which may be too intense or disturbing. Reader discretion is advised.

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I fought, gasping for air.

He wouldn’t stop until I no longer struggled. I could see it in his eyes.

He was going to kill me.

The winter of us had been long and hard. Though not barren as it had produced three amazing children.

Who will soon be motherless I thought as my lungs screamed for air they couldn’t get.

You’re gonna be a great mother, he said, pulling me closer. The world outside was frozen solid but he’d built such a big fire that we hadn’t bothered to dress after love.

Let’s live here, I said, snuggling into his chest. We can skate in the winter and teach our kids, too.

What do you know about skating, Hollywood, he sneered.

There’s a lot more to calif-

Than Hollywood, whatever, he sighed, you always say that.

Because you’re always calling me Hollywood!

He yanked away from me so fast that I landed on my swollen belly. He ignored my pained gasp.

Nothing’s good enough for you, is it?

I scrambled to keep him from falling into another one of his moods. Baby, no, you know you’re more than good enough.

Silence.

C’mere, baby. I moved to hold him, stumbling when he drew away.

I work all day just to come home and do everything around here. Can’t even get a decent meal. He threw his lighter so hard it took a chunk from the wall. I didn’t want to remind him we agreed not to smoke in the house. He’d only get angrier.

Baby I told you if you brought groceries I’d love to cook for you. I can’t make what’s not-

Why the hell don’t you go shopping while I’m at work?

With what car?

You got two legs.

Town’s what, three miles away? That’s six miles! In five feet of snow!

He glared. So I’m not worth it, huh?

That’s not what I’m say- I was cut off by a leather bound encyclopedia colliding with my forehead.

I thought I saw an evil smirk on his face, so cruel my chest clenched. But everything was stars when my head hit the wall and he was all over me wiping blood and fussing over my babybump, his face so caring and concerned that it couldn’t possibly have just been contorted in hate.

As he fussed my eyes landed on the pond across the field. Back and forth, skating over the frozen surface in circles and figure 8’s, imagined frigid air stripping moisture from my eyes so none could spill on my face in the room.

I learned to skate that winter following the birth of our first son, and began teaching each child the moment he learned to walk. Those were good times. Our mittened hands would be numb and our throats raw from laughter long before we’d run inside. He’d stoke the fire and I’d make hot cocoa with marshmallows. After hot baths we’d all snuggle under blankets and I’d read until the last one was asleep. Exhausted, he and I would climb under our comforter. Well, I’d be exhausted- he always wanted love and I couldn’t argue. Well, I could, but we didn’t have money for the kind of makeup that hid consequences.

He took his hands off my throat and stared. Fuck, he’s expecting a response. I choked and coughed, my crushed lungs couldn’t get enough air.

Well? He screamed, wild eyes raging.

I don’t know, I croaked. I didn’t, my mind had been wandering and dizzy while he was strangling me, I had no idea what he’d asked.

I heard his fists striking my face more than felt them. The sound a punch makes is nothing like how they make it sound on TV.

I clawed at his eyes, trying to wrench them out. That angered him further and he kneed my chest, shoving out the last of my air. My desperate body began wrenching and thrusting as my vision grew blurry and dark.

We have no other options, I argued.

My woman ain’t working. Period.

How the hell else are we going to come up with money?

He hadn’t worked for most of my pregnancy and unemployment had ended long before I’d given birth. The baby was three months old and rent was two months overdue, even though he’d sold both our vehicles.

No.

Baby, I’ll be getting tips. We’re out of diapers, remember?

He glanced at the diapering area, wincing at the grocery bags and old t-shirts I’d repurposed.

Men are going to flirt with you.

So?

So? I don’t want pigs flirting with my wife.

It’s Caveman, honey, I murmured. You know he won’t let anything happen to me.

After a 6 hour battle he allowed me to leave for the shift we’d agreed to yesterday when Caveman had come over offering me a job tending his bar.

That first night went well. I actually found myself having fun.

But then 2am came.

He was waiting for me.

Where are the kids?

Home, he said through gritted teeth.

Alone?

Asleep.

But… how long have you been waiting? I mean, you had to walk here, didn’t you? When did you leave? My words came jumbled, anxious.

They’re fine, he barked.

I walked faster, pushing against spent muscles, unable to avoid horrible thoughts, hatred brewing.

I was fading. Strangulation takes a long time. Images kept appearing, but not like how they say your life plays back. Images of my kids' lives after I was gone played. Him arrested, imprisoned. The kids taken, split up. Alone without the siblings they were so close to. Sad, lost among strangers, bright smiles and bubbling energy fading.

Everything was going dark. My lungs felt raw and inflamed like when you’re breathing icy winter air. My movements became jerked and sluggish- I was losing control of my body. I felt like I was drowning.

The boys were always bringing home lost or injured creatures. He generally ignored this as I was careful to keep it far from his areas.

They begged for years for a puppy or kitten, doing everything to prove responsibility, but he always said absolutely no.

One day he walks in carrying a box with holes. I quickly flicked long bangs over my eye. He got even madder than when he bruised me if I didn’t cover it.

They came running for hugs as they did every day but instantly knew today was different. He held the box high above their precarious boy-energy, beaming proudly at me.

Quiet down, guys, let's let Mama open it.

They circled close as I opened the box to a pair of sweet, round eyes.

Renditions of GAWSH-DAAAD! A-KIIIITENNN! THANKYOUUUU! welcomed Miss Whiskins to our home.

Arguably the most loved kitten in the world, Miss Whiskins, or Miskie as we often called her, was very spoiled but never acted as such. A polite kitty, she would sit patiently by her bowl and wouldn’t make a move to eat even if her meal was late, waiting until I said it was ok to begin eating. She adored the kids and joyfully played every game they taught her. She even gave him frequent loving headbutts. But she was happiest when it was just her and I.

We bonded hard, she was always at my side. She could be curled up beside me snoring loudly and no matter how gingerly I moved she was awake and in step beside me with her tail happily in the air to whichever room my next chore waited.

Miss Whiskins hated his moods and would hide for days, appearing after everyone had left to shower me with special kitten-loves.

I love you so much, Miskie, I told her the morning after she first experienced his mood. The boys had left for school worried after searching all night. I’d been scared, too, though I wouldn’t have blamed her for fleeing this hell. Imagine my surprise as I sat crying into my coffee to suddenly feel a tiny paw on my bruised cheek.

Miskie stared into my eyes with so much compassion. She groomed my tears and purred and batted my fingers. Her caring acts may have been what kept me going.

I’d never been prouder of my kids than when I explained that Miss Whiskins was going to be a Mama. My tumble-rough boys treated that pregnant cat with such tender care, hell, she didn’t have to lift a paw!

She went into labor as a big storm was coming. School cut early as below freezing temperatures were anticipated to accompany 8 feet of snow. When the boys got home she’d been in labor for a few hours but it was as if I were alone again they were so quiet!

But then he came home.

He threw her out. We snuck her back in and were punished severely.

I awoke the next day in the hospital, my head pounding and eye swollen shut. Two of my kids were with me, wearing their own battle wounds. But my oldest was the worst off. The boys told me he fought his father fiercely, wanting to kill him for what he did to their beloved cat. Even after being knocked unconscious his father had continued the attack.

For his bravery my oldest son got twelve hours of surgery, three steel rods, and five bags of blood.

He was never the same after that.

I found the bodies that evening after being discharged. I knew it was hopeless but I tried to revive them for hours with gentle CPR, stroking and warming them at the fire.

The ground was too hard to dig so I wrapped them in my best quilt and gave them a water burial in the pond.

My heart sunk to the bottom with them.

I filed for a protective order the next morning. It was denied.

He was out of jail two days later. Charges dropped.

The boys never again hugged him, or welcomed him after work. Never spoke to him if they didn’t have to. I never touched him again, either. But that didn’t stop him from touching us.

I brought my oldest home from the hospital the week after. I promised him I was going to get us out.

The grip on my throat relaxed. Air seeped in. Still straddling me he swigged long from his bottle then leaned down, examining.

He was… checking to see if I was still breathing.

I was so tired. I just wanted to go to sleep.

But those images of my kids were forceful; unrelenting. I couldn’t not fight- I wasn’t only fighting for my life.

Miskie deserved better than to lie beside him. With the kids back in school I borrowed a snowmobile and drove deep into the wilderness.

I stayed long after the cinderblocks towed the bundle to murky depths of the remote lake I’d found, numb inside and out.

We live in the sunshine now, winter never reaches her icy fingers this far south. I watch my two older boys try to surf on the board I found in a secondhand store while the youngest plays in the driftwood. They are tanned and blond now, and even though the therapist says it might take years for us to thaw from the trauma, my oldest is showing signs of his old, bright self.

My youngest is coming slowly, carrying a bundle.

The boys see, and come running.

Mama, he whispers, we gotta keep her warm. She needs us.

We crowd around. He gently unwraps his hoodie.

Eyes on me. Wide. Pleading.

Let’s get her home, I say.

She’ll never be cold, I hear my oldest say as I watch his shadow wipe it’s eyes.

We’re gonna be OK, my little guy says, though I’m not sure if it’s to the kitten cradled in his arms or to all of us.

Yeah, we're gonna be OK, I think, as the hole where my heart used to be begins to warm.