Broken Madonna

An unedited extract from my forthcoming novel, Ausgang Zero

Mary slowly drew a bath, enjoying the steam filling the bathroom and coating the wall tiles with beads of moisture. The white tile walls gleamed under the aggressive bathroom light that interrogated rather than merely illuminated. The angry watts coursing through the spartan bulb forced all the cracked tiles and missing grout from hiding. She gently caressed the dimmer dial, conscious of its temperament and in no mood for dispute. She negotiated the light down from floodlight to candle. Enough light by which to read and wash. Enough by which to obscure her bruising. The mixer tap also needed bargaining with, too. Its pitted exterior like wrinkles, its sputtering output a cough. Worn out and tired, like everything in the house, just trying to remain useful, just trying to survive. A deft touch and gentle motion convinced the tap to stop leaking hot water. A true sign to Mary that her only allies were the inanimate. She removed a timeworn towelling robe, folding it and resting it on the cistern rather than giving the door hanger more to worry about. Fragile shaving mirror in trembling hand, she looked at her face. He hadn’t hit her too hard, the last punter. 

But he still hit her. 

An occupational hazard, like a chef smelling their cooking or a Catholic being truncheoned by a policeman. There was more in the steamy mirror, so much more than black and blue flesh. And all she had to do was meet the gaze. 

Her gaze: indomitable and intense. 

As a young girl, she wore that thousand-yard stare whenever teachers, parents, or anyone with a modicum of authority spoke to her with anything less than approval. In her soul, she was mercury, gold, or carbon, elemental, unable to be broken down further by conventional means. The eyes, the stare, the window into the irreducible minimum at her core. They were hooded and cowed but not gone, just needing concealer. There was pride in those dark eyes, too. The last one she couldn’t do much about. God gives you a body and a face that men want, and that pride is only natural, right? Warranted? Deserved? Who could say except God? What people could say, though, was that she was defeated. She was forty and barren. The good lord had given her the face, the body and the charm to allow her the pick of the finest young men but not the means to keep them. 

Not in this world.