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She was too proud to tell anyone that her husband had played rough—too proud and too stupid.
     

Chapter 3
    C elia flinched as she eased her aching body out of bed. She stood shakily in front of the nightstand and washbasin and stared at her reflection in the mirror above them. She sucked in her breath; was that her staring back? One side of her face, raised and pink with faint tinges of red and blue appearing just under her eye, hurt at the soft touch of her fingers. Her top lip was darkened and swollen, and a small gash above her right eye was caked in dried blood. Her eyes, wide with fright and grief for dreams lost and sullied, stared back at her without pity or recognition; she was changed forever. She would never lie between the sheets and yearn for Joseph’s touch or a kind word from his mouth, and she would never look at her own face, once filled with hope and love, in the same way ever again.
    She peeled off her nightgown and inspected her body. There wasn’t much to see in the soft orange light peeking through the curtained window. It looked just as it always did: rather thin, ribcage prominent under her breasts, and stomach so flat that it appeared to have caved in. She had never studied herself in such detail. Her loss of weight had only been evident in the clothes she wore. Through her obsession with Joseph, she had lost all appetite… Her hunger for him had left no room for food. She cast her eyes down the length of her body and sucked in her breath when she saw the bruising on and between her thighs. Angry imprints of Joseph’s hands were clearly visible, making her shudder with shame and disgust, with humiliation and utter hatred.
    She washed her face with a damp cloth, and tears again stung her eyes. She wiped them away. She had to be strong. She had to get to her father, find him at all costs, and tell him everything, no matter how humiliating and shocking the story was.
    It was late, and she prayed that her father was still in the house. Her mind raced as she threw on some clothes. She ignored her tangled hair, her underclothes, and her stockings. Time was of the essence. She had to get to her father.
    She suddenly stopped what she was doing and stared with wild eyes at the bolted door. What would she do if she found Joseph and not her father downstairs? What would she say to him? What would he do when he saw her?
    “Please, God,” she whispered. “Let Papa be here.”
    She held her breath, unlocked the door, and slowly turned the door handle. Outside in the hallway, her eyes darted from left to right and down the length of the stairs. She went first to her father’s bedroom; it was empty. She then looked inside the three unused bedrooms and again down the hallway. At the top of the stairs, she stopped and cocked her head to one side. Nothing moved; the house was deathly quiet. She tiptoed slowly and as quietly as she could down the wooden stairs that led to the ground floor. Every second stair seemed to creak, announcing her impending arrival at the bottom, but she kept going.
    A loud knock at the front door made her jump, and then her body froze as she hung on the wooden railing that followed the stairs to the bottom.
    “Calm down, Celia,” she said softly to herself. “Calm yourself. It’s the coal man; this is his delivery day.”
    She reached the bottom, smoothed her hair, and opened the door.
    “Celia, my God!” Sergeant Butler, the village police officer, said at the sight of her.
    Celia ignored his words. The first thing that came to her mind was that Joseph had turned himself in to the police. No, it was impossible, she thought. He wouldn’t do that, but how else could they know?
    “Sergeant Butler, what brings you here?” she asked.
    “Celia, may I come in for a moment? I have something to tell you. It’s about your father.”
    Celia looked at the pair of sympathetic eyes staring at her. So this wasn’t about her and Joseph. It was about her father. Sergeant Butler held his