Police Special

Reading the Times today, I found this tidbit buried in an article:

While my face swelled a bit, there were no bruises, and I later was told that the beating I got might have been a kind of “police special” whose purpose was to leave no marks.

Huh. So there is a name for that! And so -- that's still hitting, right? That's still bad. Right. I have to tell myself because I do not know anymore. I do not know that in the way that most people know that.

They also poked him with a bat, the police in this guy's article. Which brought this back: I have followed N out to his bike while he gets ready to leave for work. I was told to do this. He said something I did not like; I reacted with anger, forbidden anger, in view of the neighbors. He orders me inside; he picks up a hammer. I know he won't hit me with the hammer. Halfway up the basement stairs my face is in the carpet, jammed against a step. Knowing turns to hoping. He pokes me with the non-business end of the hammer, shoves it into my side like a firearm, asking me if I would ever do that again. Ever? No. Ever? No. Ever? No. Never. Sorry.

A hammer to the head could kill me; a hammer to the arm would make me scream. He didn't hit me with the hammer, just let me know he would.