A piece from my long running story, In Sommnia.

Fiction, philosophical, mystery, fantasy…

This extract contains physical violence.

Reading Age – 16+


In Sommnia

Life is a picnic – of sorts


I’m witnessing an abundance of butterflies – The Admiral? – a pleasing start to our picnic. 

Dejavu time again.

I’ve never seen so many clustered together before, their glorious wings outstretched, quivering in the August sun, delicate feet momentarily touching the cups, plates, blanket, hamper, food.

The one I trusted and loved smiles with his eyes.

This is a happy place, with him , right now.  I choose not to remember the nasty things he said; cruel words for the moment are conveniently pushed into drawers. 

Always listen to your inner voice!

But I want things nice and normal.  This is a special time, I’d prepared the food and chilled the wine, and not forgotten the blanket.  Want to show him I love him, want to prove to myself I can be happy.

And then he clumsily drops the mustard jar and the skies darken.  The nagging voices rise to the surface.  The butterflies are frozen but my hands shake. 

He curses the mustard, he curses this – what was to be a happy picnic; he curses himself and he curses me.

“Of course you knew this would happen.”  Says a nagging voice.

“Why would you expect anything different?”

“A leopard doesn’t change his spots.”

“You know it’s not you!  It’s him!”

“He is sick.  I don’t understand why he behaves this way.  What have I done wrong?  But he was so loving!  He may lose his temper with me, but he would never hit me…He told me so, at the beginning: I have never hit a woman.”

He is now standing, his face red, his eyes ablaze, a person I don’t recognise.  The mustard jar at his feet, a blob of mustard yellowing the picnic blanket.

I’m feeling vulnerable sitting so I stand and he strikes me to the floor.  I crumple the picnic things, I’m thinking what a mess I’ve made, I hope I haven’t broken anything.

He’s yelling obscenities.  I hope I can get up without being struck again, I need to get away.  Wobbling, I get to my feet and he strikes me again. 

No, better to crawl on my hands and knees.  Try to get to safety.

Abruptly, I am pulled to my feet and slammed to the ground again. 

I crawl.  My vision is marred by tears.  I hear a desperate whimpering, feel wet soiled clothes.  Again I am seized and there’s screamed accusations of me being like her.  Try to wriggle free but he has me in his strong grip: Now it’s carousel time.  He is swinging me round by the roots of my hair.

Need to get away!

He will kill me if I don’t.

He lets go, tired of the swinging.  Back to the punching. 

My head hits the ground, I’m on my back and he is atop me striking my face.

Will this ever end?  Will I come out of this alive?

He curses my desperate cries of help.  He is ordering me to stop.  (What so no one will possibly hear me, will possibly come to my aid?)

Please God, Don’t let me die!

It is dark and cold.  Bunched up clouds, such a pressure in my head.  The butterflies are dead, the spread of the picnic ruined, and he is watching me from somewhere, although he is gone.

Spying on me through the black branches of trees.  Am I the deer caught in the open about to be hunted and duely slaughtered?

I scramble to me feet, slowly turning round, trying to figure out where he is.  Can’t see him, I will just have to follow my instincts, run and hide in the woods.

So I run.


Copyright / by Faith 2009