Fear: A Short Story on Domestic Violence

I try to regain my senses as I huddle in a dark corner of the bedroom. I reach up to touch my aching face and am suddenly thrown by a wave of nausea. My skin is covered in blood. I know the wound is bad.

The flip-flop of my stomach passes quickly as I stumble toward the bathroom to look in the mirror. I am shocked by the person I see looking back. I hardly recognize myself. There is a large sanguineous gash running the length of my cheek, and extensive bruises are fighting to develop. I try to stop the flow with a clean hand towel, but it just keeps coming. Cursing quietly to myself, I fumble through my purse for the car keys and start off to the emergency room.

I know the doctors and nurses will ask what happened; I've been here to many times to count. I'll have to tell them I fell down the stairs again. I know this is a foolish excuse, but it is far better than the truth. The truth is like the other 1.3 million women and 835,000 men in America; I am a victim of domestic abuse.

My life consists in constant state of fear. I walk on eggshells around my paramour. I hope and pray that I don't say or do the wrong things. I have to think carefully about where I go,who I speak with, what I buy, and what I wear. I am continually depressed and anxious. I live in fear that this or something worse could happen to myself or my loved ones; that maybe death will one day knock at my door.

It seems like just yesterday that we met. I was barely 16, and at 18 he was older. I had went to the mall with a group of friends and saw him glancing at me from across the food court. I was glad when he came over to say hello because I was shy and could have never gotten the nerve to speak to him first. He was so charming that I agreed to go out with him on an upcoming Saturday night. I thought I would burst with anticipation. We were a steady couple from that Saturday on.

I think it all started shortly before our one year anniversary. We had went out to see a movie then went to out favorite restaurant. A guy sitting across the room kept looking at me while we were there. I found it a little annoying, but I did not think anything of it until we got in the car. My boyfriend acted like I had done something wrong! I was so confused by the outlash of anger from him, that I tried to defend myself from his venomous words by thinking of a poem we all learn in grade school. I'm sure you all know it by heart.

Sticks and stones
may break my bones,
but words can never hurt me.

I still loved him at the time and brushed off the foreboding voice in my mind. It spoke to me softly, my conscience. It whispered that I knew that he had come from an abusive family, that maybe he would treat me the way he had learned at home. It asked me to think if that was a possibility. He seemed so against turning out that way. It only takes one person,after all, to break the cycle of abuse.

The outbursts of anger became more frequent and more cruel. It started small with occasional arguments or belittling me. I tried to tell him he hurt my feelings, and sometimes it worked. I would cry then he would act remorseful, all flowers and sunshine again. It really makes you question yourself. The hurtful things he would say start to creep into your daily mindset;it erodes your soul to the core. It makes you question everything about your life you once thought to be true. It turns your own mind against you.

Eventually though, even my tears would be turned against me.

When he first became physical with me, it was always in a place that I could hide. The upper thighs and arms were a favorite spot.I now see that he knew he was wrong. Why else would you hide it?

He could be two different people in the blink of an eye; one was the loving and compassionate person I fell in lobe with, the other was something out of a horror movie. We were stuck in a cycle of anger, pain, and expected forgiveness for his actions.

The years have gone by now, as have a few trips to the emergency room. I guess he has finally quit caring if he hurt me. He doesn't bother to ask if i'm ok anymore. I, unfortunately, don't get the "luxury" of crying anymore for "sympathy". It just enrages him to see me cry. I press my emotions deep down. I will go "away" in my mind, if it is a very bad day, only listening to him enough to get the answers to his questions right.

I hate him.

I think that one day i may get the courage to leave him, and i'll be a stronger person for all that I have had to live through. I just hope that he is not home when I get there.