Twenty-One Wilted Roses

The air was stale.

Filthy.

Thick with smoke and alcohol.

It was a nasty little smell.

And I hated it.

The smell of Love.

The smell of Pain.

The smell of Jess.

I love Jess.

I really do.

When she isn't drunk.

Or stoned.

Or nearby.

I shouldn't have ever moved in with her.

The bruises all over my body are all the proof I need.

I looked I had been hit by a truck or somthing.

But no,

Just Jess.

Hitting me with her bare hands.

That and nothing else.

That was painful to even think about.

I could see her coming towards me like she did last night.

The smell of cheap wine and discount cigars.

A horrid smell to even think about.

She was carring a bottle in her hand.

Empty.

She threw it.

It hit me right across my thiegh.

Creating a red mark on a sea of black and blue.

Painful.....

Horrid pain.

She looked angry in her own drunken way.

"Dontchuu have any wine bahbeee?"

I winced.

If I anwsered, she'd slap me.

If I didn't anwser, she'd kick me.

If I tried to find some help, they'd shrug me off and i'd be killed.

I am the domestic-violence survivor who found the support system grow suddenly cold and distant when they found out my abusive partner is also a woman.