By Jayne Martin
At the mailboxes, I share sidelong glances with the neighbors from 3C and 4A as he arrives home. “Evening, ladies,” he says, the stench of drink in his wake as he staggers up the stairs.
In bed, I pull the quilt over my head to shut out his rage. Turn up the television when your body slams against the thin wall we share. Avert my eyes from your bruised flesh when we meet on the landing.
The newspapers say we were complicit. I can still hear your cries.
Jayne Martin is a 2017 Pushcart nominee, 2016 winner of Vestal Review’s VERA award, and a 2018 Best Small Fictions nominee. Her work has appeared in Literary Orphans, Spelk, Crack the Spine, Midwestern Gothic, MoonPark Review, Blink-Ink, Cleaver, Connotation Press and Hippocampus among others.