When he smashes his fist into my face, I don’t feel pain. My head snaps sideways and my body twists to follow. It is an instant, yet it is forever. Time doesn’t exist. My senses are fuzzy, overlapping each other. I feel blistery blood red and icy blue, I taste fear and panic, I smell my own nightmare rewind and begin again, rewind, begin. How many times must I live this? I remember whole stories in this instant, this forever. They’re reverberations of this story. Then, adrenaline takes over and I simply feel the need to survive. Get away, get away, live, survive. It’s all I know. It’s all I feel. I must get away from him…
The old trailer in which we live is far from the scrutinizing eyes of city people. It’s tiny and dark, even on the brightest days, and holds inside itself the secret of my shame. Fall sings her song of rich shades, the sprinkle of forest trees within sight, but not very close. Nothing of the golden, shimmering shades is heard within these walls, only the growling of my stomach and the echoes of my crushed self-esteem. I want to make something nice, something different, but we don’t have any money, and there are only the usual dried beans and some potatoes. If I make something special, maybe he won’t be angry with me all of the time. I just have to be better, that’s all, to try harder to make him happy. I know it’s me. I really don’t blame him for always being mad. I know I’m not pretty enough, even though he sometimes tells me that I am. And I’m definitely not smart enough. Then, there’s my figure. Who would like anyone with a figure like mine, all thin and lanky? If I looked like one of the girls in the magazines, or if I could do anything worthwhile, then maybe he would always be nice to me. I open the refrigerator again, thinking this time I’ll see something different; same thing as the other two times, an almost finished jar of mayonnaise, and a couple of bottles of beer. I close the refrigerator door and wonder what to do. I hadn’t eaten today. Not that I don’t want to eat, I do. There is just never enough food. Maybe I can add the potatoes to the beans and make some soup. Lots of salt and pepper. That would be good. It’s early enough to cook the beans if I start now. I look once more through the soaked beans for stones before I add them to the pot of water and put them on to boil. While they boil, I daydream about another life, a life far away, maybe deep in a thick enchanted forest where faeries play and spill sparkling dust of dancing, happy light on everyone, where animals laugh and I magically create full course meals out of beans and potatoes. Or I’d live in a faraway land, in a castle at the base of a mountain, which overlooks the sea. Where leopards cry out in the night and monkeys come by to ask for bananas. There, I’d be happy with myself; so happy that I’d live with a man who loves me for who I am, and I’d have two orange cats curled up in my lap while I concoct mystical baubles from the bleached bones and shiny shells of the nearby shore. I begin cutting the potatoes, and I think once again about all the good food I’d always had at home. Most nights my little sister would pre-heat the oven and take the frozen TV dinners out of their boxes. She’d peel open the plastic from the tin foil like containers and expertly put them on the racks to heat. She was a good cook, even when she was only eight. My mouth watered at the thought of the shiny metal trays with individual sections containing each food group. I remember looking in the refrigerator at home and whining about there being nothing to eat! When I complained and wanted something different mom always said, “What do you think, money grows on trees?” I wander over to the window and gaze out at the sharp blue day, a contrast to the dark, dingy trailer with its wretched paneled walls. I wonder what I’d be doing if I hadn’t run away. I wonder if anyone remembers me. I look out and I wait. The anticipation is one of the most difficult parts. I don’t know when he’ll transform from his sometimes charming, benevolent self to a man who is capable of inflicting intense harm. It’s like living with two people. When we have fun and all is well, and his personality is charming and amiable, I question my own experiences with the other part of him. It doesn’t seem possible that so caring a person can also house a nature so tyrannical and brutal. The more time that goes by, the more often his cruel temperament is unleashed and exposed, and it seems to be getting worse and worse. I must try not to do anything that will make him angry, that’s all. The difficult thing is I sometimes make him mad for no reason, just because I’m me. God, I disgust myself. No wonder he gets angry with me. I glance at myself in the full-length mirror that’s on the bathroom door. I can’t stand my face, all angular and thin. My nose is too big and my eyes…I hate them, too. They remind me of my father’s hazel eyes. I don’t know how he can look at me every day. I try to cover more of my face with my side-parted long brown hair, but it doesn’t really help. I prepare to smile, to be good, to do what he wants. To be sure his food is ready, to laugh at his jokes, or to spread my legs, if he asks. I’m a marionette. He’s the master puppeteer. I have no choice. He’ll find me and kill me if I ever try to leave. He tells me all of the time. Life’s better for me if I please him. It’s my only option. Once, to my embarrassment, he asked me to remove my jeans and looked at me closely there, almost inspected me, and said he’d know if I ever fooled around on him. I don’t know what he’s looking for, but I’m petrified he’ll find what he suspects is evidence, even though I would never be so stupid. When he’s nice to me, it’s wonderful. I latch on to these times when I feel loved. His brown eyes glint and sparkle as we joke and laugh together, and for a few moments, I forget. I forget about the biting cruelty of his tongue. I forget how easily his mood tips to rage. He tells me no one will love me as he does, and I believe him.
| He’s jealous, too. He loves me so much he doesn’t want anyone else looking at me or talking to me. Most of the time that makes me feel special. Other times it scares me.
It’s getting dark, which is much later than usual for him to be home. I begin to worry that he’s out drinking. On the other hand, maybe he’s been in a wreck. Part of me hopes so. I turn the soup off. I’m hungry and I think about eating, but maybe I’d better wait. I lie down on the couch and light a joint, drawing hard. The smoke curls up and surrounds me with the sweet smell of cannabis. I drift back in time, to hot, humid days spent walking along the shores of the Atlantic, swimming in its warm sea, letting the sun dry the salt onto my brown body. I sleep with the taste of ocean salt in my mouth. I wake up on the couch. It’s late. I hear it again – the creaking of the door. My defenses come up right away because I can tell he’s been drinking, even before I see him. I instinctively know it. He wouldn’t be home so late, if not. How did he get the money to drink? We can’t even buy food. Momentarily, I am upset. I almost say something. I try quickly to push the anger away. What’s left is anxiety, dread, and a tight, sick feeling in my stomach. I know what happens when he drinks.
“Hi. Do you want something to eat?” I subserviently ask, trying to mask the anger and fear. He comes over, smiles, and gives me a kiss. I try hard to act normal, as if I hadn’t waited all day to eat. As if he hadn’t just walked in late at night, on this, our one-year anniversary together. As if his drunken breath doesn’t scare me. He can tell by my response that I’m upset even though I try not to let it show. God, he knows. I smile. I’m desperate now to be normal and to make him happy. To calm the bubbling anger that always simmers under the surface. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?” He asks, and holds my jaw with one of his hands. He’s not so drunk that he can’t sense my tension. Tears squeeze out the corners of my eyes. He holds my face hard and I taste blood from the inside of my cheek. Survive, live, lie, do anything, just stay alive. “Nothing, I just wasn’t fully awake. I fell asleep.” I lie, desperate for him to think that nothing is wrong, desperate for him to love me and not get angry simply by looking at me. He lets go. My body and senses are acutely alert. My breathing is shallow and nearly as fast as my beating heart. I’m scared, and I need him to be calm. I try to take slower, deeper breaths. He stands over me, as if wondering what to do. I feel trapped. I’ve been here before. I know what’s coming and I can’t get away. I will myself to disappear, but it doesn’t work. Instead, I reach out to him. Maybe if I show him love he won’t be angry. Anything to stop what I know I can’t stop. I see and feel his rage build. My hand touches his hand and finds that it’s a tightly clenched fist. When he smashes his fist into my face, I don’t feel pain. Adrenaline takes over and I simply feel the need to survive. I try to get away, but I can’t back away from where I am. “You make me sick.” He slowly hisses through his teeth and comes toward me. I put my arms in front of my face to shield myself. It’s instinctual. I’m knocked sideways on the couch, I slide down, and I crawl, desperate to get away. Live, survive, live, get away, get away, get away, the voice screams in my head.
He tries to kick me, but I move out of the way and his brown scuffed boot only grazes me. I always loved the way he looks in those boots. Like one of those male models, the ones who lean on fence posts and light cigarettes in the ads. They always have cowboy hats that are tipped down over their eyes, and worn jeans. He grabs me by the arm and yanks me up. I try to pull away. I need to run into the hallway. I need to get away from him. I need to live. Get out, get away, live, live, live. “You stupid little bitch, you think you’ll get away from me?” he spits. I swing hard. The contact feels good. The sickening sounds of flesh colliding with flesh seem amplified. I have to get away. He doesn’t expect it and it stuns him. I pull down and disentangle myself from his grip. I run. I have to get into the bedroom where I can lock the door. I need a barrier between us. Get away, get away, get away. He catches me in the short hallway and shoves me hard from behind. I fall forward to the ground. I try to crawl away from him. The bedroom is tiny and I’m trapped. I have to live. I fight. I will not win, but I fight anyway. He kicks me brutally on the side and I curl up into a ball. He is vicious and kicks me again. I can’t fight back anymore. He knows it and it enrages him further. I try to stop his boot. All I see is his brown boot. It’s bigger than I am. It’s stronger than I am. It doesn’t stop. That boot that I love is going to kill me. Now I’m going to die. He will kill me, just as he’s always told me. I can’t get away. The voice in my head has changed. Please help me, oh, God. Someone help me. Suddenly, before I die, his rage expends, and he stops. It’s quiet. Only my raspy breathing fills the corners of the room. I can’t see, but I know he’s left. I can’t get up to lock the door. I lie on the floor in a ball and weep. I don’t see the blood. My eyes are swollen nearly shut. My weeping turns to sobs. It hurts to cry, but I can’t stop. I cry out my pain and my anger. I cry out my loneliness and fear. I cry for the sorry little girl that I was and for the stupid, hateful person that I am now. I cry out all of my misery and mistakes, my ugliness and shame. Then numbly, I simply stay on the floor, hating; hating him, hating myself, hating my life. Life is not worth living. I want to die. Tomorrow I’ll find a way. Tonight I can’t move.
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