She ripes deeper through her skin, as the musical pitch goes higher.
The high music pitch in the back provoked the rage inside her.
Her nails indulged in her skin.
She could feel her flesh.

She would carve her arm, with a sharp blade.  
She mesmerized every clot of blood that came out of her skin.
Blood sliding down her arm, reaching her finger, from her fingers to the floor, like a drop of rain.  
Every scratch was a symbol of pain.

Pain to her was hypnotic.
She would be gruntled when she witnessed herself burn with pain.
It was her catharsis from the stress that confronted her every day.
Each scar had its reason to exist.

Each day she pondered, will she ever be able to break free from the confinement of sorrow.
Failed at getting an answer, each day went by.

She is locked behind the cracked door.
Her husband holds her wrist tightly, that it leaves a scar.
His eyes are red with anger.

He looks in her eyes with rage.
Unable to look him in the eyes, her head down, her eyes staring at his bare feet.
Unaware of what will happen in the next seconds, she is agitated and in trepidation.

Her heart is racing, loud.
His hand surrounds her wrist even tighter.
He slowly twists her arm, turns her over.

Forbidden from uttering a word, her eyes squeeze from pain.
He picks up the iron rod, with an infuriating smile on his face.
Throws her on the cement floor.

She is imploring for forgiveness, repeatedly pledging to never disobey him again.
But he refuses to listen.
Unable to sit, her nose bleeding, back aching, bruises on her arm, and clothes ripped.

A void in her heart, her emotions drained.
Her head on the floor and she closes her swollen eyes.
Hopelessly sleeps to wake up to hell.