Martin hit her on the cheek, breaking Susan's zygomatic. It wasn't the first time, he would send her to the hospital, and it wouldn't be the last. She is crouched on the ground, barely wimpering at the pain with her hands sheltering her newfound wound. Swelling is all ready taking over the left side of her face. With no open wound, it pushes her cheek to three times its normal side.

Martin is glad she isn't bleeding. Blood is less affective, bruises last longer, more terrifying, more visible. He stands above her. For a second, he thinks she might cry. He wants to console her, to be a hero, but Susan just cowers, wide-eyes boring into his, trying to control the slight whine seaping from her lips. Martin doesn't say he's sorry. He walks out of the living room and turns on the television in the bedroom, waits for the white noise to take over.

He doesn't hear her moving. He wonders if she's writhing in pain. He mulls the word in his head writhe. writhing. writhe in pain. He likes that image, he likes to think of her hurting.

Susan will need to go to the hospital. Martin knows this. He knows something is broken when he sees that his knuckles are swollen. They only swell when he breaks her bones. He wonders if she would drive herself or catch the bus. He wonders what the nurse will ask, how Susan will response slipped on the hardwood and hit my face on the door knob.. He knows that despite the nurse pressing for a report on domestic violence, Susan won't say anything. He didn't do anything; it's not his fault.

After some time, Martin wakes up. He must have fallen asleep to the television. He returns to the living room. Susan is gone. He looks out the window, she took her car. She was okay to drive.