I glance down at the bruises, newly patterned across my body. I cannot cry; I cannot shout for help; I cannot even muster an angry sigh; I am just sitting motionless in silence at the embarrassment of the given situation and the numbness of my body. The only sound to be heard in this lifeless mansion is the gentle purr of my husband, Lord Malcolm Harrington, whilst he rests in slumber. He looks so innocent now, how I had always imagined him to be, so gentleman-like and handsome, we were to be a perfect match. I on the other hand, am now worthless as a match, I look frail and helpless; scratches, cuts and bruises cover me from head to toe; My gown ripped harshly and carelessly. It's my fault, I am the one to blame. I should have known what a tyrant this man is and I should have never agreed to marry this grotesque creature. If only I could go back and change the time, I would fail to be so naïve.

The reason I even spoke to Malcolm was because of his social stance and the image my parents had imprinted in my mind of a perfect life. I have believed since I was a young adult that the perfect partner would be rich and handsome, suitable to support me. My parent's encouraged this to the extent that they would play ‘matchmaker' and invite just the right people to socialise with our family, in the hope of finding the perfect person for their youngest daughter. When I was a small child, I wasn't concerned with money or fancy material possessions; I had my best friend Marcus, who in my eyes could have been my soul mate, and my sister Isabella who was the one person I could share anything with. I was content with that life, having fun in everything I did. My parents didn't share the same view, they thought myself and Marcus were getting too attached and he was defiantly not their view of perfection. He was a mere farm boy whose only connection with the family was the deliverance of our milk and meat once a week. They slowly but surely helped me to become ignorant to the of spending time with him and to dedicate my time to more important matters like learning mannerisms to impress Lord Harrington. Isabella was always there for me, whenever times got hard, but she grew tired of my constant braggart behaviour and eventually gave up on me and started to form her own life without the worry of me and my annoyance.

I respected my parent's wishes and met with Lord Harrington. My first impression of him was that he was a very courteous and good looking man. Yet he had quite an arrogant side to him, I found this intriguing. It was not long until we were to be wed, and at this point Isabella and I were arguing more than ever. She tried to suggest I did not love this man and I was marrying him for all the wrong reasons, I ceased to listen to her wise words and go ahead with the engagement anyway. This was when Isabella stopped speaking to me as I refused to listen to her opinions any longer, I was stubborn and didn't realise how much I was losing. I was ecstatic with the wedding; we were such a happy and beautiful couple. We had youth and money which was my dream, we would soon enough have children and an inheritance to last us years.

When we moved into the mansion, this was where the downfall began to emerge. We consummated the marriage and it was magical, he was gentle and it was just as good as I expected it to be. For the first few weeks, he was as charming as the first day I met him. Then onwards his mood changed. He began to become increasingly irritable and snapped at every small thing I did wrong or said wrong. This mood worsened until it reached the point where I was genuinely worried for my safety, but I had no one to speak to as I had lost every person of importance in my life, especially since my parents lived so far away. I tried to keep him cheerful and make it through the day without a slap or threat. It was slowly wearing me out, I became scrawny and terrified of every noise made in our empty home.

Tonight is when he snapped. I ordered the household servant to provide him his favourite meal in order to try and keep his day bright as it was going well. I announced some news which I was terrified of sharing with him. I was pregnant, two weeks gone. I was hoping for the reaction I had when I found out, which was surprised and excited. Yet this is not the reaction I received. He turned over the table, spilling the wine and potatoes into a colourful mess upon the peach walls. It turned my stomach and I had no option but to vomit, I tried to hold it in, but this was impossible. He blamed me and called me filthy names like ‘dirty whore' and a ‘beastly trollop' amongst other slurred slang thrown at me. He backed me into a corner and beat me. He punched my person several times. He tried to strangle me but I managed to squirm out of his grasp. He shouted ‘Bitch!' over and over again then he caught hold of my dress and ripped a hole straight from the middle of the stomach of the frock. He stared at my stomach for a number of seconds and I thought the worst was over. Then his face scrunched in a way that showed pure hatred, then he clawed and scraped at my stomach and my arms. I was left gasping for breath and when I opened my eyes he was gone; disappeared out of sight. I sat down on the chair and sobbed. The gut wrenching pain was unbearable, but I decided to go and wash my scars before clearing my head and deciding what to do next. When I was washing the blood red stains off my dress, Malcolm came through the door with a look of lust more than anything else. He ripped off my dress and forced me to come to bed with him. I tried to resist and move away but his force was impossible and I could not shift my weak body. Once he had finished, he kissed me on the forehead and then fell asleep. Not even being slightly courteous and apologising for his vile behaviour.

The thought's rushing through my head now are what could have happened if I hadn't listened to my parents and married someone I truly loved? What if I had listened to my sister and backed out of the engagement? Nothing could solve these questions. All I know now is that I will need to protect my baby and nothing else matters. There is only one way to be sure that is done. Then I slowly clamber out of the bed and limped downstairs. I find the sharpest knife from the kitchen and carefully tip toe up the long wooden staircase. I make my way to the bedroom and see him, in his slumber. I look at his gorgeous features and the that oozes within him. Then I take a glimpse in the mirror at myself at what I had become. A frightened wreck of what once was a confident young lady. I feel embarrassed and thought for a second to put the knife down but now I remember the baby in my mind. My mothering instincts are too strong and as long as Malcolm is alive, my baby will be in danger. I stand tall, lift up the knife and launch it into his chest. He did not have time to shout for help or try to fight back. It was too quick for him to manage. The blood was oozing out of his marble skin and staining the cream satin sheets to crimson red. I pull the knife away and place it on the bedside table. I then turn around and walk away.

I keep on walking, through the silent corridors; down to the large wooden front doors with carvings of flowers patterned across; straight across the front garden of our country mansion, not glancing back as I can picture the image of ; down to the large wooden front doors with carvings of flowers patterned across; straight across the front garden of our country mansion, not glancing back as I can picture the image of my chalk white home perfect in every way imaginable; through the bronze gates and onto the dusty road. I started to walk, I will keep walking until I am far enough away to start a new life with my unborn child and no material possessions to cloud my judgement.