She Screamed, She Shouted, She Prayed

She walked into her apartment late from class. Quiet, as usual. He was never around, always at a bar drinking with his buddies, playing poker, or wasting up their only savings like he has always done from the time they decided on a relationship. He never wanted to admit to his wrongs, and never wanted to listen to her rights, which led to days where she wondered why she even bothered to be in a relationship like this anymore. Did she love him? Yes... she would constantly tell herself that she did and would do anything in her power to make sure he had the ultimate comfort. She worked, cleaned the house, made sure the bills were paid, and what did he do? Nothing, he didn’t do a damn thing and she knew that.

So why did she constantly tell herself that she loved him? What in her mind made her say, every night, every waking hour, that she loved him? What about all of those constant beatings, verbal abuse, nights where he would toss her onto the bed and force himself inside of her? She never spoke of it to anyone, not even her best friend, and still told herself everyday that she loved him.

“Why are you still in that horrid relationship with that man? What good does he do for you? Does he even help you around the flat?”

“Sometimes...,” she would respond in a quiet whisper, “...well, he doesn’t help all the time. But when he does... it counts as something. I still love him, though.”

She hated the stares received from her piers when she said that, hated the constant conversations she heard in the hallways of Cambridge University. Sometimes she was the talk of the day, and sometimes she was ignored by everyone around her. And there were even the days that her best friend paid no mind, because she felt there was nothing else left to say.

Sighing, she shook her head and sat down at the table, beginning to go over the work she needed due by the next day. She knew she wouldn’t get it done, for she was already behind from work she needed to do last week. Of course that turned out to be his fault, another night of ruthless beatings were the result of her missing a week of class. God forbid he didn’t do it for a night, and this time she had no idea what caused it – she knew deep down she didn’t do anything this time. But he hated to see her all right for one day, he hated with a passion to see her without a bruise on her eye or a cut on her forearm.

And he knew, the cuts were self-inflicted. He knew he brought her to point, and he loved it. There were even the nights that he took her into the bathroom and watched as she dug the razor deep into her arm, making slash after slash. He loved watching the endless nights that she would punch the wall, slap, yes, slap herself across the face, and break whatever else she could find in the apartment. Oh how sadistic he could be, for he loved every moment that his “lover” was in pain.

Stockholm Syndrome? Well, you would call it that if you wanted to, and once or twice she even heard some of the other Cambridge students mumbling about her situation being similar to that of it. She was the victim in captivity, and he was the kidnapper. Constantly he would look for a reason to abuse her, and what did she do? She didn’t cry out for help anymore, she could never do that – this time she would just say how much she loved him. Everything he decided to do to her was out of love, and he protected her from what was in the outside world by beating her until she could barely stand the next day. And never once, never could she allow a tear to fall from her eye.

As she was about to open her book, he walked in the apartment and slammed the door, empty beer bottle in his hand and his keys in the other. Every night he walked in the same way; she couldn’t even tell anymore when he was angry or whatnot. But that didn’t matter, because in her eyes he always seemed to be angry. Nothing ever made him happy, and nothing made her happy... one of the only things they had in common.

“Where is my bloody dinner?”

She didn’t responded, just kept her head in the book and made it seem like she couldn’t hear a word he said, or yelled.

“Did you fucking hear me you cunt? I just asked you, where is my dinner?”

Once again she refused to open her mouth, refused to speak back to him. She hated the way he constantly talked down to her.

Another reason that led her to wondering why she stuck around for so long. Quickly he made his way over to her and towered over the fragile girl, sitting as innocently as a child, and watched every move she made. She hated the constant watching, hated the constant hovering and feeling like she was no longer safe in her own home. And this time? She knew she would have the courage to just get up and leave, leave all of this behind.

Leave him alone to fend for himself.

“Why the fuck won’t you answer me? Are you illiterate or something? For christ sake answer me!”

“No,” she responded in that quiet, monotone voice, “I am not answering to you this time. And any other time for that matter. I’m done.”

“You’re what?”

“Done. I’ve had it. I should have listened a year ago... but I didn’t. I was too thick or wrapped in myself believing that you loved me... but now I see the truth. You don’t love me.”

“That is a lot of bull! You know that I love you!”

“No, you don’t. Real love is kissing someone on the cheek when they walk through the door. Real love is giving them a hug, or a kiss when they had a bad day. But, real love is sure as hell not watching someone threaten to slit their wrists every night, or being thrown into a wall or forced to have sex. That is your version of love... not mine.”

He growled, and yanked the top of her head, pulling her out of the chair. For the first time in a long time, she allowed a whimper to escape her lips and thrashed about, kicking and fleeing in the man’s arms of which she hated. And still she didn’t know why she did this, didn’t know why because all she ever felt for this man was sheer love. Never hate, never dread... just love that came from the heart.

“Why do you want to leave so bad, huh? What is so good out there in the real world for you that does not involve me?”

She didn’t respond, and allowed him to do what he wanted. Allowed him to throw her against the wall, allowed him to kick her and pull her hair out of her head. And most of all, allowed her to have a psychotic moment and pick up the razor from the tub. But this time she did not to press it to her flesh, she just stared up at him. And this time the hate was evident in her eyes, the meaning of ‘I want to get out of her’ shone more then anytime before this one.

“Fuck you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me... I said fuck you. And I mean it.”

He didn’t like this, and grabbed the razor from her hand. He once again, picked her up and this time threw her against the wall, yelling explicit words in her face, for the first time allowing the tears to finally come. She knew, even if she were to get out of here alive that she would never forget him. He made his mark, and that is just the one thing he wanted. His mark will be forever burned in her mind, penetrating her as she tried to sleep at night.

And as he threw her tiny body down to the floor, she screamed.

As he kicked her in the stomach and yelled even more profanity, she shouted.

And as he took the pocket knife he had out of his pocket out for all the world to see, she prayed.

And she prayed the hardest she had ever prayed before.

And she hoped, as the blood began to rush out of back and down her spine, that this would be the last time she would have to see him, the last time she would have to remember him.

But she was wrong; she would always remember him.

She would never forget him.