The Spartan

'Remember your ancestors and be strong. Be Spartan. Marriage, is forever.' Helena's mother was from an older time, a grin-and-bear-it time. But as her lips said these things, her eyes added softer encouragements: 'Things will calm down eventually, my darling. You still love him.'

But Helena knew; love only went one way for them now.

It was Helena alone who had to lie there, waiting to be brutalised. Waiting while the sweet, fiery anise of his ouzo, wafted from the bottle on the bedside table. Waiting and wondering which version of her husband would come into the bedroom that night.

Her mother's words always came when Helena looked at a particularly long crack in the ceiling above her bed. The crack was one of many ritual stop-overs on her nightly excursions through insomnia. Other markers patterned rust on the air vent, filtered shadows from the streetlamp conjured other memories. They served a purpose too; she'd often used them when things got especially intimate. She'd bitten her lip, and stared.

But for some reason, the crack could only be her mother's squeezing hand as she told her to be a good, honourable wife. Helena imagined it as the bedroom's main artery. Then she'd want to smile at the thought that this made her bed the heart. She wouldn't smile though. The thought rarely came at a smiling time.

Helena checked the clock, and waited. She brushed a hand over the furrows on his empty side. She wouldn't cry this time.

He wasn't coming tonight. She was too awake for the bitter-sweet dreams he travelled in, and so would stay alone. Alone, imagining him in his new bed that cold, loamy plot on the hill.

She focused on the crack again and stiffened her upper lip. She would be strong; honouring him and her mother.

A Queen of Sparta.

Helena rolled over and snatched the ouzo from its reverential spot. She tipped it back and gulped the spirit down.

Mark