Darkest Hour by Annequins Design
He beat her, he beat their young son
when the sun was set,
when the blinds were shuttered
and the neighbors were blinded.
He drew their blood early in the eve,
his adam's apple throbbing in rhythm
to the thrusting of his teeth
to the thrashing of his fists
flailing to the beat
as his black eyes screwed them
into their nighttime hellhole.
Come morn, the family went about
ordinary business as he commanded.
It was at work I would see her--
so elusive, so pale,
long red hair dry and disheveled--
sometimes walking too slowly, often
dressed with too much cover
for the season. What then
was her reason
for sweeping her hair away
from the love bite ripening on her neck?
To convince us that their love
was not stale?
Perhaps it was a sign of warning,
but not a cry for help.
It was already too late
to save her.
MLydiaM ~ April 2012
Written for Poetics—Vampires at dVerse Poets. Thank you to Blue Flute for this prompt that brought back memories of a co-worker who became a good friend. This poem ends the way it does because of the topic. My friend did, in reality, find the courage to divorce that man and create a new life for herself.