Constant Chaos

The bathroom was dark except for the bars of yellow streetlight staining the tile through the blinds. I laid my head on the cool porcelain rim of the claw foot bathtub. Reaching up, I turned the water on, letting the steam wash over me.

I was scared that if I sat up, I would throw up. My stomach spasmed again. A panic attack or the leftovers of the beating my boyfriend gave me earlier that night? I wasn’t sure. It was hard to tell anymore.

Everything blended together now. Wanting to leave but being too afraid. Scared that no one would believe me. Why would they? For the last three years I’d done nothing but lie. Lie about how great our relationship was. When other women bitched about their husbands not taking out the trash, I nodded in agreement. Rolled my eyes when they did. Secretly though, I thought they were fools. Whiny babies who had nothing real to bitch about. Could they not see how lucky they were?

But I never said anything. Just tugged my sleeves down further to hide the bruises and went on laughing and talking about how horrible men could be. They had no idea.

So to come out now and tell the truth…who would care?

Sprawled out on that floor, my head on the tub, tears burning the fresh cut on my cheek bone, I wished that someone would come get me. I didn’t care who or how, just my own personal hero to take me out of this place.

I stood up and walked to the window. Across the street, high up in the ugliest tree on the block sat a big barn owl. He blinked at me and I swear for a moment we made eye contact. I blinked back at him. And the knowledge that no one was coming to save me rang clear and true through my entire being.

Little did I know that was my first step towards becoming a murderer.

It took a while. Several weeks actually before I really lost my shit and defended myself. Realizing that no one was coming, that it was up to me to save myself, was freeing. The hardest thing about waiting was not knowing. When would someone come? Who would come?

But now, I could answer those questions. I was the who. The when…well, I figured I would decide that with time.

Things were already bad before I realized I had to be my own knight in shining armor. In the beginning, things were always good. Then the abuse came. Just verbal at first, emotional. He’d call me a slut or a whore. When I started screaming insults back at him, calling him abusive, he’d tell me that I deserved it. That I was abusive and deserved it.

At first I just thought he was nuts. But after a while that sort of talk sinks in a little bit. You begin to question yourself. Doubt creeps in and you start wondering if maybe you aren’t abusive.

Living with a monster takes its toll. The lines between right and wrong start to blur. You say things you never thought you’d say. Think things you never thought you’d think.

He got into my head. Even now, looking back at it all, I still can’t fully explain what it was like. Chaos is as close as I can come. A constant, overwhelming chaos. A division between wanting to leave and not knowing how. Being constantly alert, watching for any sign that your world is fixing to get blown to hell. People refer to it as walking on eggshells. I’d say a closer metaphor is navigating a person like they’re a human minefield. And, in most ways, that’s not far off. The wrong word, the wrong tone, and boom. Game over.

Then he started hitting me. That added another layer to the constant confusion and chaos. After that, the good times grew shorter and farther between.

I was coming back into myself. Remembering what I was like before him. That I wasn’t afraid all the time. That I used to laugh and smile. Before him I had friends and a family. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed. Truly laughed. Not the fake chuckle I forced out for him. The tight smile that I was pretty sure never reached my eyes anymore. I’d never really understood what that meant until then.

When I began to doubt, to reconsider and think I should stay, I’d look out the window. That owl was always in that tree now, waiting, watching me.

Was it a sign? Some sort of omen?

I was cobbling together a vague plan when the other shoe finally dropped.

I burnt supper. And he called me a stupid cunt for it.

“No,” I said.

“What did you say?” he asked, violence in his eyes.

“I said ‘no’. Burning supper was an accident. That does not make me a cunt.”

“It makes you what I say you are.”

He lunged for me and I backed away, right into the cabinet.

“Bitch,” he spat.

I tried to move back more. I’m not sure where I was planning on going. But my hand slipped and I felt something burn and then pain. I looked back to see what happened. The knife was still there from when I’d chopped an onion earlier. And I’d cut my hand on it.

I remember the blood and how bright it seemed. How garish in the house where everything was so white and sterile and clean because that’s how he insisted it be kept. And there was my blood dripping on the white tile.

He’ll beat me for this. That was my only thought and it seemed funny because it was such an odd thing to think because he was going to beat me anyway.

I heard him yelling from far off. I knew now when he was going to hit me by how he yelled at me and that was definitely his hitting yell.

His fist stopped mid air and he looked so shocked. I looked up at him confused, wondering what would surprise him out of hitting me. He looked down so I did too. And there my hand was, holding that knife that was buried to the hilt in his stomach.

It was bad but it was more like a nightmare so it didn’t really register how bad it was. He backed up a step or two, clutching that knife. I was so relieved that he was away from me, so relieved he wasn’t going to hit me that I didn’t even think about what might happen next.

As I walked down the street, I saw a big barn owl, taking flight from the ugliest tree in the neighborhood.