A framed family portrait sits on the dresser and collects dust. The glare of the sun burns her face off. The faceless body poses next to the smiling husband; it stays on the dresser and never leaves. It never moves from its phony static pose — just smiles and collects dust.
When the husband comes home it gets knocked over in a battle of strength, one of which she could never win. She doesn’t even want to, doesn’t even try. She submits herself to the beating, learned technique from many times before, so that maybe he’ll get bored. She just wants it to be over. It works and he leaves.
She lays there awhile. Then craws to the fallen frame and picks it up, wipes the tears off and puts it back on the dresser – glass cracked over her face.
“The worth of a man is his conviction — the piercing eyes of conviction. The eyes that tell you he has a heart of a man. If there’s no conviction, then there is no heart. The strength stops at brute — an empty body with hollow eyes.”