The wicked and tumultuous spell had made her the woman she was today, a feminine photographer who respected and enjoyed a good nap on a July afternoon near the Grayville Zoo and the Allegheny River. Stanley’s bout was beyond brutal, if the truth be told. It was a vulgar and continuous act of bipolar rage that consisted of the unthinkable: palm-size, red-blue-plum welts across her cheeks; pussy eye in a ring of onyx black; a broken finger on her left hand; punch-marks just above her comma-shaped navel; strands of hair missing from her bloody scalp; a singed eyebrow; a cracked, upper lip swollen and pulpy and rose red; a dislocated collarbone because of his rage, making her resemble a female version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame; her core swollen because of his punching…punching…punching…