500 words for maximum impact, copyrighted to Andrew Angerclashes in 2009.

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He surveyed the mess. She had burnt the manuscript.

"What the fuck happened?" he asked her, voice already raised.

Silence.

"No matter. I have the original in my laptop."

He turned it on, desperate to verify this. The file was gone.

"What did you do?"

She backed away from him, scowling.

"I was reading it, ok? And it was terrible."

"That's no bloody reason to erase it!"

"Yes it is. You paid more attention to that stupid book of yours than you did to me. That heroine, she made me sick."

"You do realise that you crossed the line, correct?"

"What do you expect from me? If you'd kept me happy maybe less accidents would happen."

"You bitch."

"Don't use that tone on me. You're just a bully. You only write because you hate me. That's why there are all those women characters in your book. You're trying to replace me with fiction, you freak."

"Shut the fuck up."

"It's all romance scenes in those fucking dirty novels of yours, but then you come home and beat me. You're a fucking hypocrite."

"I'll beat you if you don't shut up." He paused for reflection.

"Screw this, I'm going to beat you anyway. You deserve it."

He advanced on her then, grabbing her with a strong arm. She twisted and cried out, but could not escape. Grimly, taking no pleasure from it, he unbuckled his belt with his free hand and pulled her over his knee. He proceeded to thrash her soundly. She wept and cursed at him the whole time.

When it was over, he let her up reluctantly. His temper had swelled, but was now subsiding. His arm felt tired. He had hurt her too much.

She fell off his lap and lay prostrate on the carpet, hair and expensive clothing in disarray. When she stood up, he saw that her mascara had run, making her look pathetic. In defeat, she was not humbled. Her fury poured forth, as though it thrived on pain.

"You bastard!"

"You deserved it for touching my work. See you don't again."

"You're just one more useless abusive husband; you read about them all the time."

He could not answer, for he suddenly felt that she had a point. He had not merely spanked her; he had whipped her. And he'd been really angry; that was irresponsible. No fair, his mind countered, she burnt my book! She's cruel and vindictive!

"You shitty, no-good goddamn bastard of a man," she accused, then slipped into their bedroom, locking the door before he could chase after her and give her a second helping.

Now he was alone, guilty, feeling wretched. Sometimes after he beat her, she'd eventually relent and demand sex. He reasoned that it helped with the pain and it was a way for him to make amends. That and presents, which he also dealt in. What would buy forgiveness this time?

But until that door opened, he could only soothe his conscience with the mini-bar.