Battered woman syndrome, also known as battered person syndrome, can be the product of long-term domestic abuse.
People living with battered woman syndrome may feel helpless. This can cause them to wrongly believe they deserve the abuse and that they can’t get away from it. In many cases, this is why people don’t report their abuse to police or loved ones.
My hand trembles as I reach for the chain unlocking the door. I look cautiously through the smeared peephole glass, and there stand two policemen. Their grave faces tell no lies, and the knocking comes again, once, twice. Then again, and the sound is worse than the slaps. It finds its way through my eyes, my nose, my ears.
Knock, knock.
As I open the door, I tell them that nothing happened. Nothing that I hate. Something that I’m used to. Something I understand. Their eyes range over me. My disheveled appearance, and red gouges across my face, bruises above my collarbones. I wrap my shawl around tighter.
“We’ve had a complaint from your neighbors, madam. They say there were screams that didn’t stop.”
“It was my daughter, she was in a fight with her brother. I told you, nothing happened.”
They don’t believe you.
They look me up and down. I pretend I see what they see. A woman, married, abused and beaten.
I put my palm over my cheek as a reflex.
A woman hiding something.
***
The air is alive with the smell of the food, food which took away my evening, and would hopefully protect me from the night. The children are crying, and I’m tired, but it makes no difference for he is a good father. He is.
His face is mirrored in anger and shadow today, and I do not know whether dinner will be enough. It hardly ever is. It starts with the fingering. His nails press hard into my skin, leaving red imprints along my cheeks and jawline. I suck in my tongue with a somewhat impatient demeanor, for the fingering drives me crazy.
“What? In a hurry now, are we?”
I shake my head, a little more violently than I should have done and suddenly his palms are flat against my skin in rapid, ruthless motions.
“No, no, why don’t you go say goodnight to the children?”
“But it isn’t night yet.”
I look outside the window desperately, and the sun is setting slowly, but not fast enough. The room is bathed in an orange glow, the crimson color of blood and bruises.
He is a good man.
This time, I welcome the pain. It is almost nice for a change, the shoving and the touching. The hands aren’t my enemies. They’re my saviors.
He is a good father. He is a good man. He is.
Before I know it, I’m naked and his fists are groveling through my hair, and it feels good. It feels better than starving.
***
“Madam, is your husband home tonight?”
I hesitate, drawing the door closer to shield us.
I whisper, for my voice has deserted me, along with my courage.
“Yes.”
“Has he been drinking?”
“I don’t know how that is your business.”
“Madam, has he been hurting you?”
This time those grave eyes and grave faces meet mine square in the face, and I don’t know how to explain anymore.
“My husband is a good Christian. He provides for me and my family.”
“That does not answer my question. We’re here to investigate.”
“I don’t see how you can investigate a marriage. What happens between the two of us stays between the two of us.”
“Do you want to pick up where we left before–?” His slurry voice drifts through the doorway.
I slam the door shut, protecting my fate.