'Til Death Do Us Part Read online

  Published by Mojocastle Press, LLC

  Price, Utah

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  ‘Til Death Do Us Part

  Copyright ã 2007 Ruby Christine

  Cover Art Copyright @ 2007 Mojocastle Press

  All rights reserved.

  Excluding legitimate review sites and review publications, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Copying, scanning, uploading, selling and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without permission from the publisher is illegal, punishable by law and will be prosecuted.

  Available online at:

  http://www.mojocastle.com/

  Also By Ruby Christine:

  Protecting Angel

  ‘Til Death Do Us Part

  Chapter One

  Ten years, ten long years of life with an abusive man. Three thousand, six hundred and sixty-five days of being told how worthless I was, how fat and how ugly I was to look at.

  One hundred and twenty months of living in fear, scared to sleep, scared to talk to my friends and deathly afraid to live.

  Why, you ask? What makes a woman so weak, so insecure and so damned stupid? If I’d known the answer to that, then maybe I wouldn’t have lived eighty thousand, six hundred and forty hours with a man who lived to make my life hell.

  Just the other day, I told my sponsor that I knew there was a heaven because I had lived my life in hell.

  When I stood in front of the justice of the peace, he said ‘til death do you part, and who would have ever guessed that simple sentence, those five little words, would have landed me here in the Texas State Correctional Facility.

  I’m telling you my story in hopes that you will have the courage to leave, if you’re like I was. Don’t wait ‘til the devil takes control and you’re left feeling numb and full of hatred. Don’t do like I did. Don’t wait ‘til you think there’s nothing left to do.

  Do I regret it? No. Do I wish things had been different? Yes. Do I still have nightmares? Yes. Would I do it again? Yes!

  Yes, I would have still killed him.

  I, Becca Francine King, was born on a cold December night in nineteen-eighty. For almost one year, I have been prisoner number 1005161623. I’m no longer a person, but a number. No longer front-page news, just a convict trying to get an appeal. Twelve of my peers convicted me of murder, premeditated murder.

  Had I thought of killing him before? Hell, yeah! Every time that bastard came home smelling of Jack Daniels’ and stale cigars, I dreamt of killing him. Every time he touched me, rolling me over, having his way, not caring if I hurt from the day before when he threw me down, kicking me.

  Yes, I wanted him dead.

  They said, “Why didn’t you just leave him? Why kill him?”

  I remember the smug-looking TV reporter condemning me, talking about all the ‘help’ women like me have available to them. Screw them all. How dare they judge me and tell me what I could have done? Nobody knew the hell I went through. Nobody!

  Services available to me? I couldn’t even leave the house. If I went grocery shopping, he wrote down the mileage. If I went over, I got beat. If I didn’t go exactly like he’d measured, I got beat. There were no ‘available services’. It was Mick’s way, or no way.

  I am sure there is someone out there shaking their head and rolling their eyes as they read this, thinking there is always a way out. Go to the police.

  Yeah, our private heroes that are paid to protect and serve. A neighbor called them one time. I’m sure the old lady heard me screaming. When they arrived, Mick gave them my falling-down story and even though I stood there with a black eye and a busted lip, they walked away. I wanted to scream at those assholes, “Look at my face,” but I remained silent as Mick glared at me. I knew if I said anything, he would kill me. He told me on numerous occasions that he would gladly die before a cunt like me ever made him look stupid. He wasn’t lying. I knew he would do it.

  The next question would be, how could you marry a guy like that?

  Mick was a charmer. He had to have taken one look at me and known I was insecure, lonely and needed to feel loved. I was a sap; a poor, pitiful young woman ridiculed her whole life for being chunky. School is a horrible place to be when you’re young, fat and poor. I can remember just a few of the names I was called; porker, fat ass, fatty fatty two-by-four, couldn’t get through the bathroom door.

  My favorite was when I got a Christmas card from a little boy that I liked in third grade. It said I hope Santa brings you diet pills, because you’re going to die, being that fat. I cried all the way home.

  * * * * * *

  The lights turned off and I had to put the pen down. The lights turned off at ten o’clock every night. I don’t know why I started writing everything down, but it sure made me feel good. I didn’t want to forget what happened. So many women try and block their past, but for me, I wanted to remember. I wanted to remember every hour; every minute and every second of the hell that man put me through. If one thing that happened to me could save some poor woman from abuse, then I would relive it every night for the rest of my life.

  Nighttime was the worst, being locked up. It’s not like television. It’s real. These are real women who made stupid mistakes. Most of the women on my cellblock were in for drugs or some white-collar crime. Sure there were lesbians; a woman gets lonely. There were fights, but what you see in the movies is far from the truth. My days were the same, over and over. I got up, I ate, I worked, then I wrote in my journal. That was it for me.

  The nightmares had stopped. These days, I dreamt of being free. I longed for the day I could do simple things; grocery shop, ride in a car with the windows rolled down and walk down the streets in the rain. I just wanted freedom. Sadly, even being locked up was more freedom then I had living with Mick.

  * * * * * *

  The night we were married, Mick rented a room at a Motel 6. He said we needed to save money, so there wouldn’t be anything fancy. I was so young and in love, I didn’t care. I was nineteen years old, and thought he walked on water.

  He took me to Gim’s for dinner. I ordered a chicken-fried steak with fries. He told the waitress to bring me a chef salad. I remember looking at him, and he just smiled and said, “Honey, it wouldn’t hurt if you lost a little weight.”

  It did hurt; I felt a deep twinge in my gut. But I would do anything to make Mick happy, so I ate my salad while he scarfed down the chicken-fried steak and fries.

  As we were leaving the restaurant, a man held the door open for me. I smiled and thanked him.

  On the drive back to the hotel, I tried to cuddle up to Mick, but he pushed me away. I scooted over near the door, and we finished the drive in silence.

  Once back at the hotel, instead of him carrying me across the threshold, he grabbed me by the back of the hair and threw me in the room. He began screaming at me, accusing me of sleeping with the kind stranger. I got up to leave, but one punch in the face and I was out.

  I woke up naked in the bed, my body aching, my eye swollen. He had taken me while I was out cold. There was no telling what he had done to my body. I felt sick to my stomach and rushed to the bathroom.

  That was the beginning of the abuse, the rape, the life I had to live.

  After a while, your body becomes numb. He would get on top of me and pant like a dog, huffing and puffing, trying to shove his little dick inside me. I felt nothing; I was emotionless. He’d come, then roll over and fall asleep.


  Those were the good times. The sex I had come to hate was what I called the macho sex. He’d come in, knock me around, beat on his chest, then tie me to the bed and do whatever he felt like doing. Usually he used some toys or heaven forbid, whatever item he could find near the bed.

  I hated him with every ounce of being I had left. I still don’t know how I kept alive for ten years. I can only thank God I never became pregnant. The last thing I would have allowed was his demon seed to grow inside me.

  Oh, he let me know over and over how I wasn’t a woman because I couldn’t conceive. I was worthless. I was stupid. I was fat. I would never be anything. I couldn’t cook. I couldn’t clean right. I stank. My fat rolls disgusted him. I was only around so he could bust a nut.

  Yes, these are the things he told me.

  Chapter Two

  “King!”

  I closed my book and looked at the guard. “Yes, ma’am?” You had to show them respect, or your life would be hell.

  “You have a visitor.”

  I followed her, stuffing my journal into my pocket. “In there.”

  I walked into a small room. Sitting at the table was a blonde lady a little older than myself. She wore a fancy suit and wrote on one of those Palm Pilot things.

  When she saw me come in, she stood, extending her hand to me. “Miss King, my name is Laverne Cagle. I am your court-appointed attorney.”

  I took her hand and softly shook it. “What happened to Mr. Leaverman?”

  “Well, he was assigned another case. Miss King, our office feels he wasn’t exactly fair with you. He left out some extenuating evidence. To be honest, your case was not a priority on his list. In his eyes, you were just another pissed-off wife who offed her husband. I have won an appeal, and your case will be tried again.”

  I could have kissed her. I’d been sitting in jail for almost a year waiting to hear something, anything. Mr. Leaverman never returned my calls or letters. I had almost given up. “When is it?”

  “Well, we have thirty days. I need for you to start telling me everything. I want names of people who saw him beat you. I want witnesses. I need police reports.”

  “Mrs. Cagle, I never filed on him.”

  “Did anyone ever witness him beat you?”

  “He was a smart man. He never did it in front of people.”

  She sat down, closed her eyes and let out a deep breath. “Mr. Leaverman had in his possession a letter from a neighbor stating that she heard the screams from you as well as him. She told them of the bruises, the fresh welts on your face. It is a legal document, and we can use it. All I need to do is find this lady and hope she will testify in your behalf. There are a lot of women’s groups who will back you up and believe your statement. I believe you.”

  Tears trickled down my face. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to know that nobody cares?”

  She laid her hand on top of mine and in a calm, soothing voice replied, “Becca, I care, and I will get you out of here.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because it is my goal in life to help those ladies who are powerless over men’s hatred.”

  “Why?”

  “My mother died, Becca, because she was too afraid to fight back. No, I don’t believe you should kill them, but damn it, when choosing between your life and his, I say blow the bastard away.”

  I laughed. I hadn’t laughed in God knows how long. I laughed so hard tears fell from my eyes. For once in a long time, I had hope. I really had hope.

  * * * * * *

  Thirty-two days later I was found innocent by reason of temporary insanity. I had wanted him dead, but that day, oh, that day I hadn’t planned on killing him. It was years of anger built up inside. The night of his death, Mick had lost his job. He liked to drink, and the drinking finally did him in. Well, of course it was my fault. Everything was my fault.

  I’d been cleaning the kitchen floor, not with a mop, but on my hands and knees with a scouring pad. Yes, my husband would literally get on his hands and knees and run his finger across the baseboards to assure I’d cleaned his castle correctly. After many, many broken ribs, I finally mastered the art of cleaning the floors.

  I’d just finished when I heard the door on his F150 slam. You learn the sounds. The way their footsteps sound on the hardwood floors, the way they shut the refrigerator door, and the way they breathe lying next to you.

  As soon as he entered the house, I felt that old familiar fear enter my gut. I quickly punched the start button on the microwave. In two minutes I could have his dinner on the table. He had called earlier in the day, telling me he wanted a baked potato with a lot of butter, mild cheddar—nothing else would do—and of course, tons of salt and pepper. His steak had to be medium rare, and his salad crisp. It was done. The beeping of the microwave caused me to jump. Where was he? I hadn’t heard the toilet flush, or his keys hit the stand by the door. Something was different.

  I had all his food together. I placed it on a tray and started towards the dining room. A hard smack across the back of my head almost made me drop the tray. Mick was standing by the door, glaring at me. In his hand he held a fifth of Jack Daniels’. “Bitch, why isn’t my dinner on the table?”

  Stay calm, over and over in my mind. I tried to keep myself cool. His temperament was different, his eyes filled with rage. “I was making sure it was nice and warm for you. Would you like something else?”

  “Put it down.”

  I set the food on the table and began to walk back into the kitchen. He grabbed my wrist, stopping me. ”I called today…where were you?”

  “I was here, I was here all day. I didn’t hear the phone, and your number doesn’t show on the caller ID.”

  Smack!

  “You fat-ass bitch, are you calling me a liar?”

  The taste of blood was instantly in my mouth. “No, Mick, I was just telling you that I hadn’t heard.”

  Smack!

  This time I fell to the floor.

  “Who are you fucking when I’m at work?” He pulled me up by the hair on the top of my head. I knew better than to fight him. It only made it worse. “Who is it?”

  “Mick, nobody comes here. You are my husband, I love you. I would never sleep with another man.”

  Smack! Smack!

  “You lying bitch. I watched him leave today.”

  He was crazy; something was different from the other times. I was scared. I didn’t know what to say. There was no arguing with him.

  “Nobody has been here all day but me.”

  He threw me to the ground and sat down to eat.

  I didn’t move. If I moved it meant more beatings, and my face was already swelling up. I could still taste the blood in my mouth. I watched him reach for his silverware to cut the steak.

  Fear leapt in my gut. I had put the fork on the wrong side of the knife. Silly, yeah, but he would notice.

  He threw the table across the room and started to chase me. Never before had I seen my death in his eyes but that night, there it was. He caught me as I neared the bedroom. I screamed, but his hands on my throat muffled any noise.

  “I could stand here and watch you die, you stupid lardass bitch. It wouldn’t hurt me at all to see such a lazy piece of shit go to hell.”

  I was losing consciousness. I gasped for air, trying to remove his fingers from my throat. His evil, demonic laugh spread throughout the apartment. He let go, and I fell to my knees.

  Mick began to unzip his pants. “Suck me.”

  I began to stroke him with my tongue. I wanted to puke. He smelt of urine and feces. More than likely, he was too drunk to wipe his own ass. He shoved his hips hard against my body, banging my head into the wall. He kept trying to cum, to keep an erection, but he was so drunk that his ‘little buddy’ wasn’t working correctly.

  “See, you can’t even get me hard. You’re so repulsive. No man should ever have to sleep with someone as disgusting as you. I only married you because I felt sorry for your obese ass. No man would ever want
you, so I took you in to be my maid, my slut and my property. Do you know how many women I have fucked, real women that know how to make a man happy? Becca, you are a nothing. You will die a nothing, and your life meant nothing. I feel sorry for you.” He hurled me to the bed. “I’ve decided to give you something special tonight.”

  I was then tied to the bed facedown, where he attempted to sodomize me, but his manhood was not going to stand at attention. His anger was mounting, and I could sense his hatred growing.

  The last thing I remember before blacking out was the most excruciating pain. He rammed something inside me over and over. I felt myself tear and the pain…I can’t even explain. Before going unconscious, I heard him laugh.

  When I woke up, he was lying beside me. The ropes were cut free from my wrists. My wrists were bleeding and raw. My body hurt like never before. The pain was so real and so horrible, I wanted to die. I felt blood trickling out of my rectum. As I tried to move, pain shot through me. Tears fell from my eyes. I wanted to die, it hurt so badly.

  It was as if I’d lost my mind. The years of abuse, hatred, and rape overwhelmed me. I would never allow him to do that to me again.

  I don’t even remember getting his pistol out of his nightstand. I just remember the shots and his body lying there, covered in blood.

  I remember the cops arriving and taking me away in an ambulance. Even though it was apparent I’d been raped and beaten, I was still found guilty of murder.

  But now I was free.

  Chapter Three

  When you haven’t been able to sit in the sun and breathe in fresh air, it’s a priority on your list. I must have sat there for an hour with my eyes closed, just taking in the pureness of being free. It just wasn’t from prison, but from Mick. I had to report to a halfway house. I didn’t really understand the mumbo jumbo, but it was part of my deal. That, and counseling. I was to remain at the halfway house until my counselor believed I was okay enough to live on my own.