The Point

The wind rushed through my blond hair as I bolted out our front door. So many months you’ve kept me locked up inside, trapped in your mayhem. There was snow on the ground, signs of a rough winter to come all around. The wind rushed around me, but I kept running. Trying as hard as I could to get away from you, from the monster that has been trapped in your body for the past nine months.

I willed my legs to go faster as I rounded the corner, coming closer to the large, red-bricked train station, my escape. I pulled the folded ticket out from my pocket as I stepped into the station.

“Ticket please, sir.” The middle-aged woman said, holding out her hand. I set it gently in her hand in which she stamped and handed back to me before ushering me onto the long, black and red train. I found the first empty seat by a window and sat down peacefully although my heart pounded loudly against my ribcage. The train started moving at a slow pace as it left the boarding dock. I laid my head gently on the cold window, my breath causing a foggy spot to appear. Surprised, I saw you standing on the edge, watching me with sad, tear filled eyes. Your soft brown hair whooshed around your head as you pulled the plaid jacket tighter around your muscular frame. You didn’t look furious, like you normally would, but rather upset that I had left you. Your hand went up to wipe a tear that had rolled down one of your rosie pink cheeks. This was your fault that I had to get away. The train began picking up speed and you ran after it, willing it to stop with the words that left your mouth, but you were too late. You were always too late.

Twenty minutes later, I’m out of town, out of the hellhole I called our home and I can’t help to think about where and when it all went wrong.

It started nine months ago, two months after our two-year anniversary. I had moved in recently. You were constantly working; I was constantly being kept at home. You told me I wasn’t allowed to leave unless you were with me, told me I wasn’t allowed to see my life long friends any longer because you felt that one of them liked me more than he should. Even though he was straight as a board. I’d clean the house all day, making sure everything was spotless and in its proper place by the time you came home. I’d cook dinner, have the table set and be waiting for you at the door to take your jacket. You’d smile softly at me, pull me close and kiss my cheek before saying, “I love you, Austin.” I’d then take your hand as you pulled us to the table where we’d enjoy a nice dinner.

Some nights, you and I would sit out under the stars at the park down the road. You’d hold me in your arms and wrap a blanket around us to keep us warm. I’d count the stars, as you would trace circles on my chest, constantly placing soft kisses on the side of my face that was closer to your mouth. You’d run your hand down my side, your touch as soft as the kisses that you would place on my temple. I’d sigh when your affection would make me loose count, causing you to laugh lightly and pull me closer to your body.

Sometimes I’d fall sleep from your body warmth or the way you ran your hands through my hair comfortingly. Other times though, you’d place kisses along my jawbone, flip me over and attack my neck with those perfectly plump lips of yours. You’d tease me; never reaching my pulse point until the exact moment that you knew I wasn’t expecting it. I’d gasp nearly every time from the feeling, almost as if it was the first time that you had ever nibbled on that spot with your brilliant white teeth. On those nights, you’d sweep me up in your arms and whisper sweet nothings in my ear while carrying me all the way back home. You’d place me softly on our bed where we’d continue the night on in tangled up sheets, sweating and panting from the beauty of the love making that we’d do.

Oh, how wonderful you were.

Then you changed.

You came home one night, two hours late. I had already put the food in the fridge so it wouldn’t spoil. You had burst through the door, beer bottle in hand, swaying as you looked at me with blood-shot eyes. I knew you were drunk, but I walked up to you anyway. You’d gotten drunk before, usually stressed over work or some other aspect of our simple lives.

“Hello love,” I said softly as I pulled the bottle from your hand gently, “I’ll heat up dinner and then we’ll go to bed, alright?” I stood up on my toes, placing a soft kiss on your flushed cheek. I placed my small hand on your neck, softly rubbing my thumb up and down your soft skin. “Dylan?” I said softly while looking into your hollow eyes. You placed your hand on my chest and I only assumed you were doing it out of affection. You yanked the beer from my hand and before I had a chance to react your fist collided with my face. I collapsed to the floor, not expecting the blow. You had never hit me before, never once. I stood slowly before turning to walk to our bathroom. You pulled my wrist back forcefully. A snap could be heard as my wrist broke causing me to scream out in pain.

“Oi, shut the fuck up you little whore,” You pushed me to the ground and kicked my stomach, “Why isn’t my food done? Did you go out with that…that douche, Ryan? I bet you did, cause you don’t really love me.” You kicked me again before staggering into the kitchen to grab yet another beer. I laid on the floor, curled up in a ball until I heard you switch on the television in the living room. Slowly I stood, being sure not to make too much noise before I made my way to our bathroom. My lip was red, puffy and bloody and my body was already starting to form small bruises on my torso. I cleaned the cut on my lip before heading off towards our room. I sat slowly on my side of the bed before climbing under the covers and drifting off into a world of sleep, where no one could hurt me. Not even the man I loved. Not even you.

Days, weeks, and months passed and you had gotten worse. Nearly every night you’d come home, drunk out your ass. You’d kick me a few times, shove me into the wall and slam a few punches into my face before walking to the living room to watch a game of ball. It was a good night when you didn’t pull my pants down to my ankles and shove your hard member up my arse. If you were in a higher mood, you’d take us to your bedroom but if you were far beyond gone, you’d walk in, pull me to you, pull my pants down and brace me against the front door. In only a few months, we had gone from making love with sweet passionate embraces to myself being raped in the place I called my home. Sure, we had role played raper and rapie, but I never thought that this would ever actually happen in our relationship.

I never understood when it all started, had I done something wrong? Were you stressed about work, or about the money that was slowly deteriorating from our bank account? Did a friend say something to you, a co-worker that said something about why you kept me home all day? Although you hurt me, scared me, bruised me, beat me, tormented me, raped me, I could never leave you. I forgave you every time, although you never apologized. All because I loved you, I forgave you. In high school you use to say to me, “I’ll tell you one thing,” You’d peck my nose before continuing on, “we’d make history. You and me.” We talked about marriage and kids. Starting a life together was all I had wanted for us, so I never minded when you kept me trapped up. You were my world.

I had dreamed about what it would be like to spend my life with you. We’d sit in our little house in the suburbs, laughing and smiling for a few years. Still in our ‘honeymoon’ stage as one would call it. Then, when we were ready we’d adopt a child and then maybe a few more. They’d start kindergarten and before we would know it, they’d be off in the world and having babies of their own. You’d retire from your job allowing me to have you all to myself for the rest of our lives. We’d sit on the front porch every evening and watch the sun set while sipping ice tea. Each evening you’d sing to me, like you use to when we were in high school, then we’d sleep together. Your long arms wrapped tightly around my small body, protecting me from the world. From the hate, the pain, the war, the judgment, the torment, the tears, and even the heartbreak.

We’d be infinite together, just you and I.

I stopped thinking, about the world outside, about you and about I. You never saw what you did to me; you’d leave too early in the morning and get home too late at night. I was to the point of where I didn’t even want to know where you were or where you were going. All I knew is that you’d be home and my life would become hell once again. My dreams of a life with you were slowly slipping through my fingers, like sand when you go to the beach. You’d pick up a large scoop and watch it slowly seep through the holes in between your fingers. You were slipping away, taking my life with you.

Suddenly, as if time reversed, you changed back to your old ways. Your good ways. I didn’t believe you. You had taken my love for you away when you slipped through my fingers. I was to the point of where I didn’t even want to see your face anymore.

October tenth you came home, completely sober. I was cowering down next to the door, waiting for you to slam my face. I think you finally noticed the cuts, the scars, and the bruises that littered my body. Suddenly your eyes began to water, you fell at my feet and pleaded forgiveness. You told me you’d get better; you’d take medicine and go to Alcoholics Anonymous.

And all I could do was sit there and watch you lie to my face and pray to God that you were going to get better.