The story A Violent Marriage is about a deep relationship tainted with domestic violence. Perhaps it can serve as a warning to those who might be heading in a similar direction. This is the second and last part of the story. The first episode can be found here: A Violent Marriage - part 1

Ben was immediately wheeled in for emergency treatment. Anna sat down in the waiting room until her patience failed her and she began to pace up and down in the corridors. A nurse was walking past. She grabbed her arm and asked,
‘How is my husband? Is he going to be all right?’ But the nurse was busy making notes or filling in a form and did not know what Anna was talking about. ‘Please return to the waiting room and the doctor will be with you shortly,’

‘Can I help you?’
‘Oh, please, can you tell me what is going on with my husband, his name is Ben Walraven and he was brought in about an hour ago with a slashed wrist artery, can you please tell me what is happening?’
‘Madam, you are not supposed to walk around the corridors looking into cubicles, please go back to the waiting room and as soon as we are ready, a doctor will come and see you,’ the nurse said, pointing towards the front part of the hospital where the waiting room was.
‘All right, thank you.’  Anna replied and walked in the direction the nurse had indicated.

There were only a few people in the waiting room.  An old man was slouching on a chair with his flies open and one shoe off.  A couple were holding a baby who wouldn’t stop crying and several young lads sat around their injured friend who was obviously the victim of a fight with a huge black eye and his shirt torn and grazes all down his arm.  They were talking loudly, agitated and nervous.  One of them was eating a piece of dry bread and sharing it with his friends.  The wounded boy did not want any bread; he was holding his forehead, looking at the ground.  Anna got sick of watching all this misery, most of it self-inflicted through drinking too much alcohol.

She picked up a magazine dated six months back and looked at the irony of the beautiful models on the advertisements promising beauty, health, and happiness. One article caught her attention, it featured paintings and talked about a successful Hungarian artist called Vazarelli and when she looked at his photograph Anna remembered knowing him years ago at art school in Budapest. So it was possible to become rich and recognised as a foreign painter in Paris. Maybe they could go and look him up this Vazarelli guy and maybe he could help Ben find his feet on the Paris art scene. She moved the magazine under her bag and tore out the two relevant pages to show Ben later. She looked at the clock: half past three.

She recalled how Ben, not long ago, when he woke up after one of his long weekend binges with a heavy hangover, in one of his apologetic sober moments, he had pointed out exactly what was wrong with him.
‘I used to be Ben, the talented artist, courageous leader and war hero but now I have not painted in months, I can’t keep a job and I have become just a drunk, like any other drunk anywhere in any country or planet or solar system or galaxy - a drunk is a drunk and nothing more and nothing less than a drunk.’ I no longer deserve my name, Anna,

Anna had had to go out to work that morning after taking Tommy to school and she  had left him there in his despair.  Maybe if she had been able to give him more time it would not have come to this and now, she could only walk up and down the hospital corridor and wait until they fixed him up.  Hopefully she wouldn’t have to wait too long.  It was very late now, Tommy was alone at home, and she had some early appointments the next day to deliver photos, which she still had to glaze and touch up before morning.

More than an hour and a half had passed since the incident.  Again, she got up and started pacing around the room.  When no nurse was around she walked out into the corridor again, trying to find some signal, some news of Ben’s whereabouts.  A senior doctor walked up to her. 
‘Mrs. Walraven?’
‘Yes, how is my husband, is he coming out soon, can I see him?’  Speechless, the doctor slowly and compassionately put a hand on her arm and took her into a private room.  From these actions, or rather lack of action and from the solemn expression on the doctor’s face Anna could already guess: Ben was dead.
‘I am very sorry; we could not save your husband.  We tried a transfusion but he had lost too much blood before he got here.

Yes, she had been worried sick but Anna had firmly repressed the thought of Ben not making it during her long waiting time. The possibility of her returning home alone had not occurred for one moment. Even now, she reacted as if Ben was still alive, waiting for her to take him home.
‘Can I see him?’
‘Yes, in a moment. I shall send a nurse to fetch you in a few minutes. I am very sorry.’ The doctor walked out of the room. During the next few minutes reality began to sink in. Ben is dead. My Ben died months ago; he died when he lost his pride, when drink turned him into a miserable insane violent irrational monster. He died when he believed that alcohol could drown our poverty and problems away. And in a funny sort of way she accepted his physical death or at least the

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Sue