It bothered her very much but she did not tell him. Every waking moment she spent with him around, seeing him the way he was, seeing him behave the way he did, she hated it. She did not like how he was when the kids were around but she could not tell him. They hated him, too. She knew. She wondered whether he knew it.
There's an easy way out, her friends always told her. Leave him. She considered the option several times but each time she started to pack her bags, she realized she could not do it. Not because the were kids involved. Her mother often told her, couples quit being couples when they become parents, and then for the rest of their life they remain parents. She knew her mother could not walk out of the marriage because of her brother and her. But, she could not walk out of the marriage because she loved him very much. Despite everything, she loved him and each night as she went to bed, she prayed. She prayed for him. Prayed that he could become a good husband and a good father. He was not evil, he was not always bad. There were some happy moments scattered around her otherwise sad life. His only problem was - he was alcoholic.
There were the good days when he had decided to quit, he had put in some efforts as well but it did not last. He started drinking again and once he was drunk, he was someone else. He was not the man she loved, he was not the man her kids called their father. He was the devil everyone wanted to run away from, trying not to get hurt. Because, when he was drunk, he became violent. Doctors said it was because of some sort of suppressed anger he had kept building inside of him. It did not hurt them to analyse, but it hurt her to go through the moments, both physically and mentally. Whenever he entered the house drunk, his kids would run to their room, if not, she would rush them to their room and lock the door. By that time, it was always late for her to save herself and then the assault would begin. He would hit her. Fist, kick and belt. Hit her till she bled, hit her till her lips were swollen and she had cried her lungs out and then he would tend to her wounds. Then, he would cry, weep like a baby, his head on her lap, his arms around her waist.
And then, she would cry aloud, sob. Not because she was hurt, she would cry because he was hurting himself.
Tonight, just like every other night he had beaten her when he returned home drunk. He had made her beg to stop. She did not. So he hit her harder. Even this time she bled, but this time it was different. She bled from between her legs when he kicked her in the stomach, rather tried to kick her in the stomach but in the process his kick had landed straight on her womb and dislodged the placenta of the recently taken form, her child, their child. This time, unlike other times, she had hit him back, she had pulled his hair, slapped him, punched him in the face. She cursed, she told him how much she hated him and how glad she was that perhaps their unborn child would never take birth to see all this.
It was then that he saw. The blood streaming down her legs. He picked her up and rushed down the stairs and out of the house as fast as he could. He fell down a couple of times, but he cradled her carefully in his arms, taking care not to hurt her further. He climbed into a cab and took her to the hospital. The doctors started the treatment as soon as they could. Most of the times she was unconscious. She barely remembered being interrogated for domestic violence. The nurse told her that the man who brought her to the hospital, her husband - he was arrested for domestic violence. She closed her eyes. She was not sure whether she wanted this. She almost made up her mind that she would change her statement and take back the charges but then she remembered what had happened tonight. The nurse also told her that her baby died because of lack of oxygen due to loss of blood supply. And, she hated him for that. She closed her eyes, she needed the rest.
He hated himself for what he had done. He hated himself for what he had become. He could not keep his promise to his wife, he did not have enough courage to quit. He knew he should have done this long back. He knew, it was too late and that his wife would never forgive him. She would perhaps hate him for the rest of her life. He knew he would not be able to live in the same house with her. In fact, he was sure she would never let him in the house.
The few steps he had taken with her in his arms, trying his best to maintain his balance had been the most testing steps of his life and also the life changing ones. He knew he would kill himself if he hurt her further. He loved her and he knew she loved him too. Then, why did he beat her? Beat till she bled? Was it her fault that she resembled the woman he hated the most. The woman who had made his childhood a living hell! No, it was not her fault that she resembled his mother.
Sitting in the waiting room of the hospital, his hands joined in prayer, he made up his mind. It was no news to people that he was drunk, he could even see doctors staring at him perhaps wondering whether to involve the police. What was taking them so long? They should have arrested him by now, he thought. Perhaps, they did not suspect him of domestic violence because he had brought her to the hospital? He saw the doctor approaching him and he stood up. The doctor said that his wife was conscious for a couple of minutes and she had given her statement that she tripped and fell down a flight of stairs and then she lost consciousness again. His eyes filled with tears and through the blurred vision he could see the police about to walk away. That's when he did the right thing. He called the police and gave his statement that the woman on the hospital bed, his wife, mother of his kids did not fall down the stairs but was a victim of domestic violence. He confessed that he was an alcoholic and added that he wanted to be severely punished. He wanted to be cured of this disease.