The Ripped T-shirt II - Her

Verity Johnson’s wet hands trembled and slipped on the iPhone as she desperately tried to call her best friend Enid. An explosion of tears and pain delayed the call a further fifteen minutes, but gathering what was left of her strength she picked the phone up from the cold and wet kitchen floor, dialed and prayed to God that Enid would answer.

“Rathbone 356748”

“Terry Terry it’s Verity is Enid in oh please is Enid home?”

Terry shouted for his wife to come quickly. He had known Verity and Mike where having problems but this sounded more than just a shoulder to cry on.

Enid grabbed the phone from Terry and the mantle of Samaritan.

“He hit me!” Howled Verity as she repeated the same words over and over through more tears and grunts.

“Oh my God! Terry get the car ready; he’s hit her Terry!”

A gentle man but firm in his own way Terry took the keys off the ‘welcome home’ hook by the front door, put on his Hush Puppies and dashed outside in the rain to his red Ford Focus.

“I’m going to call you on my mobile, we are coming to get you. Is Mike still with you?”

“He’s, he’s, he’…He’s on the floor…” Verity dropped the phone and wept uncontrollably.

As hard as Verity wept was a fast as she stopped, just stopped no more tears, stopped like Mike’s heart, dead like Mike. The only part of her alive was the movie replay of her husband raising his fist ready to land the blow on her ribs he enjoyed so much. Then the scissors; the scissors she’d been using to mend a rip in his best T-shirt.

“Verity love its Terry, Terry and Enid, let us in love, can you do that?”