He sits staring blankly at the empty Word document before him. The quiet whir of the machine is drowned by the pounding rap music blaring in his ears. With fingers poised over the keyboard he waits. His eyes close, then open, then close again and stay closed for a while before opening once more. The white screen glares back at him almost blinding and shows no mercy for the lack of progress he has made.

           She yells at the top of her lungs. Commitment, commitment, that's what she needs. He drowns her breathy voice with his own screams. He is sick and tired of her abuse; he doesn't want to commit to violence. She doesn't seem to understand. She blows up completely instead landing a well placed slap to his cheek. First the right, then the left, he knows they will leave a mark this time.

           He types in a period, finishing the single short sentence at the top of the endless white. The throbbing music of heavy metal rock fades in a crescendo of electric strings and banging batons. U2 lifts off through the headphones soon after. He lowers his head, hands dropping limply on the keyboard as The Sweetest Thing reaches through every crevice of his brain.

           He moves through the house, away from the screaming woman. She reminds him of a child having a temper tantrum, though she hurts more than some five year-old. She advances; moving after him like a wild cat stalks its prey. She doesn't realize how many times he has picked up the phone and dialed nine... He has backed himself into a corner. She clenches her fist, head throbbing, heart pounding. Why, oh, why did he always have to do this to her?

           He rips off the headphones, yet Bono's mellow tone continues to echo in his ears. The screen remains white except for the small sentence alone at the top. His chair shakes as he stands and stomps down the hall. His face contorts into a series of angry and disturbed expressions. This time, he thinks, this time he'll do something. A banging from above catches his attention, but she is oblivious. Her knuckles have gone white from clenching so hard and she realizes release is only a moment away. His attention is on the ceiling as the tight mass of skin, blood, bone and muscle closes in on the underside of his chin and passes up through his nose. His head snaps backwards as flecks of red shoot out on all sides. The impact is hard, as is the belief that such a small woman could carry so much power.

           He lands with a dull thud on the landing, the staircase twisting up behind him. He sees the tall man keel over, holding his nose while the red drips through his fingers. The woman is seething, her chest rising and falling quickly as her breath comes in short gasps. He runs for the kitchen, time moving at hyper speed. The phone appears in his hand and on the other end of the line is the business-like tone.

           "State your emergency and location,"

           Her breathing slows. Her hearing is muffled and there is a high pitched whine in the background. The adrenaline coursing through her veins is so powerful she can hear it, she can taste it. He can feel that his nose is broken and his cheeks are raw and sore. The tears that stream from his eyes are warm and soothing. She shakes, staring at her fist then his hidden face.

           The sounds of sirens pierce the cold of the night as they flood through the open upstairs window. The boy leans against the kitchen doorframe, peering at the disheveled adults. Upstairs he remembers the beginning of the creative writing piece, the lonely little sentence at the top of the blinding white Word document;

           She just won't stop.