Part 219 (2/2)

Dimly, almost dispa.s.sionately, she began to realize what he was doing to

her. What he was making of her. The whirlwind ten weeks of the tour,

and the man she had fallen in love with, were like a fantasy she'd

created. There was no portion of him left in the man who kept her a

virtual prisoner in the apartment.

She thought of running away. He rarely left her alone for more than a

few hours, and was always with her when she went out. But sometimes,

when she lay in bed in the middle of the night, she thought of escape.

She would call Marianne, or Bev, or her father. They would help her.

Then the shame would take over, blistered by the doubts he'd so deeply

embedded in her mind.

He didn't use the belt on her again until the night of the American

Music Awards when he and his group were pa.s.sed over for record of the

year.

She didn't resist. She didn't object. As he pounded her with his

fists, she crawled inside herself, as she had once crawled under the

kitchen sink. And disappeared.

In his rage, he made a drastic error in judgment. He told her why he

had married her.

”What the h.e.l.l good are you?” As she lay on the floor, fighting to hide

from the pain, he rushed around the room, smas.h.i.+ng whatever came to

hand. ”Do you think I wanted to get stuck with a spoiled, stupid,

s.e.xless b.i.t.c.h?”

He vented his frustration at having to sit, smiling, while someone else

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