“No one is capable of loving you, Graycie because you are unlovable.”
That’s when I feel his hands sliding up and down my arms. If it were anyone else touching me the way he is, I might find it reassuring. Not with him. Never with him.
It’s just the prelude.
His touch is a warning. Ominous like storm clouds on the horizon. Nothing good comes with his touch.
Not pleasure.
Only pain.
Always pain.
If only he would leave me alone.
I try not to flinch away from his touch, but it doesn’t work. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of my arms and he holds on tight. The bite of his nails in my skin has me swallowing hard. They feel like talons which are about to rip into my body. He wouldn’t even hesitate to inflict that kind of pain.
When he lets go of my arms, I brace for impact. And I don’t have to wait long. He backhands me hard enough for my head to snap to the side.
And then the hits keep coming, but he doesn’t slap my face again. The rest of the hurt he inflicts are all to my body. He knows how to hide my bruises, and I’ve had to learn the same thing.
No one questions when I wear long sleeves.
No one looks twice when my lip is split.
No one notices how I find making eye contact harder and harder.
Because I’m always wondering if they’re a person who likes to inflict pain just like him. Just like him.
“Please,” the word slips out, and I bite my lip, split again, just to stop myself from saying more.
Begging is a weakness and even though he likes to beat me down until I believe all the things he says about me, the last thing he wants is for me to be weak.
When a tear streaks over my cheek, his thumb is there. But he doesn’t brush the tear away, like crying and feeling are simply part of life.
No, he presses down on my skin as if he’s trying to erase the tear from ever existing by making my body reabsorb it. When he clicks his tongue, it reminds me of those things people use to train their dogs.
Is it working? I can never be sure.
Does he want me bruised, broken, and barely hanging on?
Does he want me to stand up for myself and refuse to take anymore because then breaking me would be more satisfying?
Does he not care either way and simply wants to see me in pain?
My gut is telling me it’s all three.
Which is why I hate him and why I’ve been planning.
“Graycie, Graycie, Graycie,” he says my name like a taunt. “I can feel your hatred for me.” His voice is a low murmur; one I found sexy when I first met him.
Now it makes me want to run in the other direction as fast as I can. But, as he says, he’s the only person who loves me. The only person who can love me.
“I don’t hate you,” I whisper the words, not wanting to speak too loudly.
If I do, I’ll pay for it.
I’m so tired of paying for it.