The Roaring Twenties

My hair stood up. My body was boiling. There was a high-pitched ringing in my ears. I was afraid.

The hard-wood floor was cold. It was unwelcoming. The side of my face felt as if it had been hit by a whip. The taste of metallic swam into my mouth, and slowly crawled out down to my chin. I lay there on the ground, scared, replaying the last few seconds in my head.

He stood over me, glaring at me with rage filled eyes. His eyes pierced my soul and scraped away at the last remaining bit of hope in me. He was breathing heavily and his face was bright red. He continued to scold at me, pointing his fat finger in my face. I could do nothing but lie on the floor and take the harassment.

When he had finally tired himself out, he headed to the bedroom to continue reading his newspaper. He could easily drop what he was doing, punish me, and pick up where he had left off. As if it was nothing.

Once he had entered the other room, I slowly and quietly pulled myself up, so I would not disturb him again. It was hard to stand. My legs were weak and I felt as if I was extremely cold inside this hot tense house. The wall was the only thing that seemed to offer help. It was the only thing that seemed strong enough to hold my fragile weak body together. As I leaned up against it, a tear rolled down my cheek. It got to my chin and mixed with the blood left there. I reached up to feel my face. My cheek had begun to swell, and tears rushed down my face. My legs gave out and I fell to the floor. I sat there, crying. The blood and tears dripped onto my dress.

As shocking as it seems, this wasn’t rare. It wasn’t rare for him to yell at me. It wasn’t rare for him to beat me. It wasn’t rare for him to humiliate me in front of my friends and family. It seemed as if it was a daily routine to him. Any small thing could set him off. Disagreeing with him and even not having a meal ready on time are a few reasons that would cause him to explode. I had to act perfect. Look perfect. BE perfect. No imperfections anywhere.

_.-/*\-._.-/*\-._.-/*\-._

The next day was Wednesday. The one day of the week where he worked late. When I would not have to see him, talk to him, or deal with him. It was the day where I sat in the house alone. Each Wednesday I would sit and think. Ice my bruises. Cover my cuts. Clean myself up. Look presentable. And fear for the next day. This is the day I would always think about running off. However I always feared that he would come after me, and do worse than just beat me. Thinking about leaving would then pass after that thought had gone through my mind. I always called all my friends on this day. Wishing to say something. Wishing to open up. But all that manages to come out of my mouth is the routine fake phone-call. I’m all alone here with no way out. He has made a prison out of this house out of pure fear. however, today was slightly different. When I made my routine calls, I finally broke the wall of my prison, to a friend. The experiences, tears, blood and pain flowed out of me like water breaking through a dam. We talked for hours. It was unlike me. I felt some weight was pulled off of me. However there was still so much on top, crushing me. After the call, I needed to lie down. Exhausted, I crawl into my cold bed, fearing for what comes tomorrow.

_.-/*\-._.-/*\-._.-/*\-._

I awoke the next morning with him standing over me.

“Make breakfast.” He barked.

After he walked out, I pulled myself out of bed, and trudged to the kitchen. He sat at the kitchen table with a disgruntled expression on his face. I had a slight panic attack. I wondered if I had already done something wrong. But I assured myself that I was fine. I had only gotten up a few minutes ago. As I walked to the stove, he got up after me, and slowly walked right behind me. My heart started to beat faster. I was nervous. I avoided turning around and looking at him. I turned on the stove and continued to look down. I managed to ask.

“You okay, s-sweetie?”

Silence.

My heart stopped.

I felt his hands grab my shoulders. I felt his hands violently spin me around. I felt it when he pushed me into the cabinets. My body slammed into the cabinets like a ragdoll. I was so confused. What did I do this time to set him off? I screamed. He got even angrier and threw me to the floor. My head collided with the floor.

“Who did you tell?!” He yelled.

I could only whimper on the ground. How did he find out?! Who did my friend tell? He grabbed me by the neck and threw me against the stove. My arm landing on the flame I had turned on.

“AAAGGHHHHHH!!”

He grabbed my arm and pressed it down to the flame. I struggled to get free but he overpowered me. The pain was excruciating. I was helpless.

“WHO DID YOU TELL?!”

I kept screaming. He pulled me off and pushed me onto the counter. My arm was screaming in pain. I had had enough with this. I wasn’t going to be treated like crap. I shouldn’t be abused! I need to take control and end this.

He gripped my neck tightly cutting off the flow of air. I reached behind searching for something to defend myself with. Anything at all. I felt something and grabbed hold of it. I stuck it right up to his neck, loosening his grip, and changing his look of pure anger, to fear. I realized I had grabbed a kitchen knife that had been lying around. I pressed it onto his neck harder. The tables had turned. I was angry, and now he had only a small taste of how I have felt all this time. A bittersweet drop of blood slid down his neck.

“So the beast can bleed?” I said with a quivering voice.

He was speechless. I have won. I have taken control of my life. I stopped his oppression. The weight on my shoulders has been lifted off of my shoulders. I finally feel free. I finally am free.

_.-/*\-._.-/*\-._.-/*\-._

As the police escorted him out of the apartment, with him yelling and thrashing trying to hurt me one last time, I kept thinking. No more beatings. No more bleeding. And no more crying. I will not cry again. I have survived this, and I am strong.