Timeless Pain

Yesterday, I finally gave in and took your telephone number. We talked for a very long time, and I agreed to have dinner with you that same week. "And you were my first love." You arrived early, while I was late, and my makeup was a mess. The dinner was burnt, and when you came in, I was crying. You kissed my forehead and asked me, "Do you want to dine in or out?" "And he was my first love."

Five years, too many kids. As a stay-at-home mom, I cooked and cleaned while he worked and took care of me.

As the years passed by, my curves became straight lines, and my happy smile was just a thing of the past. "I thought you were the love of my life." I waited for long hours by the window, dashing to be there for you.

"The food is cold," I said, pushing the plate away. "I am sorry," I added, reaching for the plate. "Did you say something?" you asked, grabbing my arm and pulling me closer. He smelled of a woman; he smelled of liquor. He shamed me every time. He robbed me of my freedom and my life, using me as his punching bag over and over again. I tried to please him, but nothing stopped him from kicking my soul out of my body.

"Where are you going?" he asked, and before I could finish my response, I would wake up on the same hospital bed: a few broken ribs, a couple of stitches, and fewer teeth in my mouth.

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He would stand right by the bed, eager to assert his dominion over me. Afterward, I went home and rested for a couple of hours, and right then, I knew I was broken in more ways than one. The abuse had become verbal, emotional, and psychological. I called my mother; She took the children for the weekend. It was a very calm conversation; she referred to her anniversary, how happy she was, and how she wanted to spend time alone with her husband. As usual, he was late, smelling of liquor and women.

The dinner was done, and I dressed for the occasion. He came in, took a look at me, and laughed. He grabbed my arm and called me ugly, sliding his hand under my dress. “Wait, let me bring the dessert,” he urged.

After ten years, she walked down the hallway. She wore a short haircut, was thin, and was in shackles. She sat in front of the parole board. Pleasantries were exchanged, but she became quiet, avoiding eye contact. She was asked once again, “Why did you stab him over a hundred times and keep his body in the house for over a week?”

At that moment, she looked up, making eye contact as she answered the question: “I wanted him to feel the same way I felt for twenty years—afraid, helpless, and defeated.”