This story came about from a song I had on repeat.

I was tasked by my former lecturer to write a first person narrative story from a woman’s point of view. No easy task. Ever since I met my girlfriend I feel that I have learned what it takes to be a woman. Before I never really thought about the difficulties they face on a day to day basis. My girlfriend reminds me all the time however, about her struggles and just how important women are (especially her).

The song that inspired the story was Kendrick Lamar’s “No Make-Up (Her Vice)”. It’s a good song and I would recommend that everyone listen to it. The point of view shifts from the man to woman and I think the transition made in that song helped me make the transition in to writing as a woman. Complexities are not something most red blooded males are familiar with. And even when we think we have finally grasped it, we haven’t.

I spent a good hour and a half in the library writing and re-writing this until I felt it was perfect. I felt awkward writing from a woman’s perspective as I can hardly replicate how a woman would feel seeing as I would never feel that way. Therefore my intentions are never to come across as belittling or ignorant. The story is entitled “Wallop”. Any feedback you wish to give me would be excellent.

Greg J Allman.

Wallop! The sound of my skin tenderising under his animal like strength echoed through the room. It’s a sound I’ve become accustomed to over the past two years; it’s the only way I learn from my mistakes. Martin stands over me as I lay a bloody heap on the floor, holding the dinner I spent the best part of an hour preparing for him. “Do you know how stressful my day has been?” He roared, I dared not answer. “Those fuckin’ kids kickin’ at my door. Screamin’, shoutin’, stompin’. All I ask is that when I come home my dinner is A, ready at the table for me to eat it and B, cooked properly so I’m able to eat it. What the fuck do you call this?” The silence hung in the air, the blood in my mouth prevented me from speaking properly. “Steak” I mumbled. “No it fuckin’ aint, it’s shit.” He hurls the plate at the wall causing a splatter of over-cooked meat and broken crockery. I struggle to my feet using his muscular arms to help balance myself; they are just as smooth as I remember. He shoves me away repulsed by my ugliness, who would be attracted to a slobbering bloody mess? I’m lucky to have someone come home to me at night, friends come and go but Martin is here to stay.

He switches on the telly immediately sweeping me under the rug; I scuttle to the kitchen in search for the dust pan and brush. This mess had better be cleaned up; he works too hard to come home to a messy house. I carefully navigate around the television as I sweep up, I don’t want to disturb him when he’s in this fragile state. He never took being made redundant very well, and has had to make drastic life changes. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, a bloodied lip, worn eyes and a bruised cheek, my scars of love.

He never saw me sneak out of the kitchen in to the bedroom; I hope he likes my surprise. My days as a counter girl in a department store will finally pay off, ‘only the pretty girls get a counter’ mum used to say, I remember the days when boys would fall over themselves to walk me home or to just steal a kiss from me. He used to kiss me all the time, maybe he will if I’m pretty again. I disguise the dark purple colour of my cheek with foundation and blusher; he’ll never remember the damage. Lipstick is an easy camouflage to cover up the blood on my lips and my worn out eyes are alive again with the help of mascara, and like that, voila. I’m beautiful. My glowing cheeks shine in the light, my succulent lips and inviting eyes would be alluring to the blind.

I set foot back in to the living room, my heart sounds like someone is taking drum sticks to it, my whole body trembles with every step closer to the television, I free my hands from each other and allow him to take in my beauty. “You look fuckin’ ridiculous” he says brushing past me and out the front door. Love doesn’t live here anymore.

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