Happy Endings Are for Optimists

After I stopped submitting to the drug habits Oli had got me on, I thought things would keep going up hill. For a while, they continued to.

Oli’s affection wasn’t as fuzzy afterwards because I was right in the head. I was able to enjoy his presence more, even if he usually was high. He was generally pleasant anyways.

Generally.

Soon, Oli began changing when he noticed me turning away drugs more and more. At first, he just thought I was getting tired of the same thing and tried to get me on something else. Eventually he realized that I had stopped all together, and that didn’t make him happy.

Multiple times he’d ask me “Don’ yeh have more fun when yeh high?” and I could never give him a straight answer. As dumb as it sounds, I was scared to. At the time, I had no reason to.

But I would.

One day, he came home later than usual. He smelled like alcohol and his eyes were blood shot. I greeted him and he brushed me off, which was odd but I didn’t push it.

He stumbled around doing things, occasionally I heard accented curses as he hurt himself.

Then he called my name, a different tone behind it. Without thinking, I got up and followed his voice into the kitchen.

He was standing over the sink, dirty dishes piled in it.

“When are yeh goin’ ta’ do this?” He asked me. I scoffed.

“You can do them yourself. It’s not my job to clean everything up” I told him before turning on my heel. Before I could leave the room, I felt a strong grip on my arm.

I was pulled back around to face Oli, him pulling my arm up in a painful position.

“Yeh goin’ ta do et an’ not argue” He growled, before shoving me into the edge of the sink.

After that day, I had a bruise on my arm and side. I never mentioned it after it happened. I tried to brush it off and tell myself that he was just in a bad mood.

After that, I made sure small chores were done so he’d never get mad.

That little bit of work to avoid his temper worked for a while, but not for long.

He came home more and more messed up as the days went. I didn’t know what he was trying to get away from, but I sure wasn’t going to ask

It was one of those days that he hit me for the first time.

I was more shocked than hurt or angry. After it happened, I followed his orders. I didn’t like to get hit. But even if I did so, he eventually found ways to keep up his abuse.

He would call me disgusting names, make me do disgusting things. I didn’t even want to touch him, but he’d force me to love him anyway. He kept telling me how worthless I was, but somehow said just the right things to keep me there.

“Why are yeh so pathetic?” He’d ask me. I wouldn’t answer him, and that made him angry. When I would finally say “I don’t know” he’d just smile and then force himself on me. Then when he was done, tell me loves me.

I still loved this man. I did. But I knew I couldn’t deal with this for much longer. And I wasn’t planning on it.