Bad Girl House 15

For far too long, the same set of knives still sat on my kitchen counter. They were a wedding gift from my aunt that lives in St. Louis. I kept them for years, even after getting divorced. I could only bring myself to use the smallest knife. Just looking at the matte black handles coming out of the wooden block brought back terribly vivid memories. The feeling of the larger knives in my hand was unbearable. I finally replaced them a few years ago with a bright, multicolored set. I must have thought that would stop the memories, but any sharp knife seemed to trigger those thoughts.

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I was again being questioned about my past. As he become increasingly frustrated, John sent me to our bedroom. He couldn’t stand the sight of me, and didn’t want to hear my voice. Relief and terror filled me whenever he sent me away. It gave me a moment to collect my thoughts. The relief never lasted long. My thoughts quickly turned to anticipating John coming to check on me. A welcome distraction in my room was my son, Josh. His crib was still in our room to make night feedings easier, and to not wake his sister in the middle of the night. He was awake and cooing at the Winnie the Pooh mobile spinning above his head. I quietly whispered to him, not wanting to be heard by John. I hoped that he was in the living room calming down, and didn’t want to do anything that might keep that from happening. The apartment was so small that I could hear John when ever he got up to move. It was a sound I was very familiar with. The sound had a distinct, intense feeling to it. It was a hard push out of a chair, and a steady stride to where I was. John stormed into the room with one of his hands behind his back. He used his foot to close the door.

“You have one chance to tell me the truth.” I repeated the same things that I had countless times. I said everything that he wanted to hear. I knew that if there was any variation in my stories he would accuse me of lying to him. It meant that I was still keeping things from him. This time, hearing the same old stories only made John more angry. I couldn’t think straight, so I stopped talking.

From behind his back, tightly gripped in his right hand, John revealed the largest of the kitchen knives. I moved as far away from him as I could, huddled in a ball on the bed. John flew across the be, grabbing the collar of my shirt with his other hand. I was now laying on the bed, staring directly at the point of the knife. “Tell me the truth before I kill you with this.” I was frozen with fear. I couldn’t say a word. Both of my hands had a grip on the arm holding the knife. As he pushed down, I fought to keep tension in my arms. As John sat across my hips, my eyes were glued to the silver blade just above my face. Letting go of my shirt, he jumped to his feet.

“Start talking or I’m going to hold you up on this wall, and put this knife through your heart.”

Josh started crying hysterically. I slowly inched off of the bed to comfort him. I picked him up and held him very close to me. He felt so warm and small in my arms. This could be the last time that I hold my son.

“Put him back in the crib.” A burst of strength came over me. “No, he’s crying, and doesn’t understand any of this.” John walked around the bed, still holding the knife.

“Put him down or I’ll stab you anyway, and you’ll drop him.” Terrified to turn my back to John, I gently laid Josh back in his crib. I wound his mobile it the hope that he wouldn’t start crying again. I closed my eyes, and slowly turned around. I was alone in the room. My mind could not process what had just happened. I was alive. What felt like an eternity, probably only lasted a few short minutes. I wound Josh’s mobile one more time, and turned the light off. Soft silver moonlight coming through the blinds created blurred stripes on the wall. I collapsed to the floor between the crib and the bed and wept. With my head in my hands, I asked God why this was happening to me. What had I done to deserve this? I begged for His help. My face was soaked with tears.

I whispered to myself, over and over. “Please help me!” His answer… “Not yet.”