“And listen,” he’d added gently. “That doesn’t mean you should contact him once the 72 hours are up. I know there’s been physical injuries as well as property damage here, but it’s the emotional scars that leave the deepest wounds. Don’t let him back in. And,” he adds, “don’t be tempted to try to sneak him up in the elevators via the marketplace downstairs. There are tons of cameras here, and we’ll know.”
It’s odd, receiving therapy advice from a cop, but I know he’s right.
Yet part of me still wonders if I’m making a big deal out of this.
Maybe I overreacted. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I thought. Maybe…
But then I remember the hammer, the antlers, the promises to kill me. I remember how his face twisted with rage, how his voice dropped into something terrifying and unrecognizable.
No. I didn’t overreact. This was real.
I sit on the mattress, staring at the little yellow card with domestic violence resources printed on it. I can’t bring myself to throw it away, but I also can’t bring myself to call any of the numbers. Instead, I leave it on the kitchen counter, in plain sight, as a reminder. Every time I glance at it, a wave of shame rolls over me. I want to shove it deep inside a drawer, pretend this never happened, but I need it there. I need to see it. To remind myself that what happened was real, and that I’m not crazy.
I still don’t know what to do next. Should I move? Should I tell someone? How do I even begin to explain this to the people back home?Hey, just wanted to let you know my fiancé tried to kill me with a deer antler and a pink-handled hammer. But I’m okay now, thanks for asking.
It feels too big, too strange, too surreal to say out loud. And so I sit with it, letting the weight of it settle into my bones.
I grab my phone, scrolling aimlessly, and then fixating on the latest text from his boss.
His boss:
He’s not going to change. He’s done this before.
The words rattle around in my brain, making everything feel heavier.He’s done this before. And I thought I was special. I thought I was the one who could fix him, who could be his safe place. But I was wrong, although to be fair, I had no idea what he was capable of.
I pour myself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid burning as it slides down my throat. I follow it with the hard seltzer, hoping the buzz will numb the tangled mess of emotions inside me. But nothing can dull the gnawing fear in my gut—the fear of what happens next.
Will he call me when he gets out? Will I answer? Will I want to?
I sit on the mattress, the wreckage of my life scattered around me, and let the silence wrap around me like a suffocating blanket. For now, I am alone. For now, I am safe. But I know the clock is ticking.
And I have no idea what tomorrow will bring.
60
DEATH WISH
Dex
Iwill pound this motherfucker into the ground.
To treat such a lady this way.
To terrorize her.
I want to protect the shit out of her.
And the fact I can’t destroys me.
It kills me on the inside.
But at the same time, I know that’s how she must be feeling.
Confused. Tortured.
Like, she’s the one doing wrong. Or that she contributed to what happened somehow.
But it’s 100 percent this fucker. And I want to slash his heart into two hundred tiny little pieces. Because that’s what he’s doing to her.