The mall was ugly that day, ugly in a way it can only be the week before Christmas as hundreds of people lose all semblance of courtesy in their crazed quests to find the perfect gift for their loved ones. Adrift in our own shopping frenzy she almost lost me that day, focussing so intently on her own agenda that it must have been minutes before she noticed I was no longer with her. She pushed her way back against the tide of bodies to find me leaning against the railing of the upper level. I was oblivious to the energy around me, looking down at a pair of violinists below with that bittersweet look on my face that she never knows quite how to interpret.

I didn't feel her presence as she stood patiently beside me, waiting for the music to stop, knowing the futility of trying to reach me before then. As the last notes quietly faded away she touched my shoulder gently and repeated the oft-asked question that I never could answer.

"What is it about that piece?"

I smiled and shook my head with a familiar roll of my eyes and self-deprecating grin. How do you verbalize something you barely comprehend yourself? How do you explain finding the beauty in despair? How can you make someone understand the peace that comes with letting go of fear?

Looking back now I can't even recall the offense. Though I imagine in his eyes it must have been great indeed. I'd grown so accustomed to the strategically placed punches and kicks that they'd lost their ability to shock me anymore. But I was literally dumbfounded when I saw that fist coming towards my face. I didn't even think to move, simply stood there in a split second of slack-jawed amazement.

There's no way to explain the feeling of being struck in the face by a loved one. The power of it. The brutality of it. The intimacy of it. The warm, metallic rush of blood filling your mouth. The absurdity of the thoughts that can travel through your mind so quickly that you can barely register them.

How long it lasted is a vague blur in my mind. But I can still remember the wounded look in his eyes as he towered above me. In spite of it all I was moved by the obvious dismay in his stance. And I'm not sure which one of us I hated more at that moment, as I felt the familiar shame flood through me again.

I heard him fumbling through some CD's. Without a word he slipped one into the player and left the room. And as the first strains of the violin filled the room I lay there slightly dazed, mentally cataloging the throbbing areas of my body. Head, okay. Don't think about the face. Neck, a little strained but still movable. Arms and shoulders, going to be bruised but not sprained. And on it went until I'd ascertained the condition of the rest of my body.

I took a deep breath, braced myself, and sat up. As the strange, haunting music seemed to reach a crescendo I steadied myself against the nausea and dizziness. "Just breathe" I chanted over and over again, knowing full well the consequences should I fail in my attempts to control my rebelling stomach.

When my breathing had steadied and my head was clearing I crawled over to the dining room table and pulled myself up onto one of the opulent chairs. I checked my arms and hands carefully before resting them on the table, lest any blood mar the perfection of that beautiful wood. And at last I rested my face in my hands and cried.

The song started again for the third time. Or was it the fourth? I wasn't sure anymore. I wondered why he had selected this particular piece, what he meant by it. Because he was always trying to teach me something. Six months of lessons that I couldn't seem to grasp had passed. Six months of corrections that I couldn't bring myself to acknowledge.

I wondered how exactly I got here. How do you explain the transition from my formerly carefree life to this pathetic myriad of lies and excuses? Such are the mysteries of True Love, or so he liked to tell me. Suddenly the impossible becomes the cornerstone of your existence, the unfathomable becomes reality. I grinned wryly to myself as I imagined that we had very different subtext for that particular conversation.

I contemplated my next move carefully. Should I to wait here for him to come back to generously offer absolution for my latest transgression? Or should I seek him out as a penitent might search for forgiveness? Or should I simply leave, and face the consequences of angering him further? I sighed heavily as I realized that whichever course I chose would invariably turn out to be the wrong one.

We'd crossed a line today, that much I knew. Whatever rage overtakes him in moments like this had at least always been controlled. It was actually more frightening in its deliberation than in its infliction, as he so carefully selected only those targets which wouldn't be visible to the outside world. But as I felt my lip throb and swell I knew that control was gone. And I couldn't imagine where its lack would take us next.

I gave in to the sadness now that the worst of the pain was receding. I cried for the loss of the love I thought I had found. I cried for the loss of the woman I thought I was. And I cried thinking of a future that had become amazingly clear in its course. I always knew that if I left him, if I showed anyone the evidence of what was happening, that he would kill me. It's not even something he had to threaten me with. But now, as I faced this latest escalation in his rage, I knew with as much certainty that he would kill me if I stayed.

I wanted to rail against thefates and curse the gods and myself. But I couldn't. I wanted to shriek and stomp and feel the fire of self-righteous anger. But I didn't. I wanted to shake in fear and pray for salvation. But no words came. All that was there was the swell of this beautiful music and eyes that were seeing clearly for the first time in too long. The path ahead was both astonishingly straightforward and patently inescapable. One by one all of the offshoots, the what-ifs, the potential solutions I had been toying with and clinging to fell away. And with that realization came a strange serenity.

As the notes continued to dance around me, caressing me, comforting me, I felt a peace unlike any I'd ever known. Unlike any I thought existed. And I knew that when the time came I would face it with a smile. And say thank you.

However, as I turned back to her I knew there was no way to make her, or anyone, understand the poignancy of that moment. There are no words to describe that peace, which I've never experienced since. So with a shrug I simply said "it's pretty, isn't it?". And turned back towards that tide of bustling bodies with my arm linked in hers.