It started when I moved out of the state to be with a man I loved. I thought I loved him, anyway. He came out of nowhere, professed his deepest emotions for me, and I was reeled in by this. I’ve never had a man treat me like that before; never had a man so full of want and desire for me, who always told me how he felt about me. It was brilliant and terrifying all at once. I love you more than anyone I’ve ever loved before, and I want to be with you forever and prove myself to you. Whoa…such intensity. I fell for that hook, line, and sinker.
I moved and he became a different beast. If he wasn’t beating the shit out of me, he was verbally harassing me, causing emotional scars to match the physical ones. The first time he hit me, it was because I made his coffee too strong one morning.
“What the fuck is this shit?!” He spat out the coffee into the sink. Under different circumstances, the way he expelled the liquid out of his pursed lips would have been funny, like in the movies when someone says something funny and makes another person lose what their drinking. I stood still, not sure what to do or say to him. I tried to stammer out a reply, but was too busy ducking the heavy porcelain mug flying at my head. It barely missed me and shattered against the pantry door behind me.
His missing my head with the coffee mug made him more angry, and he lunged toward me, his arms outstretched and fingers splayed into hooks to wrap around my neck. I was stunned he was coming at me, and I couldn’t move until it was the force of his body weight that made me do so. His fingers tangled into my hair and I could feel him gripping handfuls of the stuff and he pulled my head forward as he brought a knee up until it connected with my nose. A flare of white light exploded my vision and everything went silent as the pain in my face overtook all of my senses. A split second later, I could taste copper and realized it was blood filling my mouth. He must have knocked a tooth or two out. I started coughing as the blood ran back into my throat.
He let go of my hair and I collapsed into a heap on the ground, my knees up to my chest, and my hands covering my broken face. From the corner of my swollen eye, I saw him standing over me.
“You’re fucking worthless. Quit bleeding on my floor. Get up and take care of this mess, and maybe next time you’ll make my coffee right.”
He kicked me in the back as he walked out of the kitchen and went outside to smoke. I lay on the ground for a few more minutes, waiting for the pain in my head to subside long enough for me get up without blacking out.
I finally managed to stand up, but not without vomiting up a belly full of blood into the sink. The force of doing so caused my face to rupture in pain again. I gingerly brought my hand up to assess the damage, and my heart sunk as I felt what used to be my nose. It was now a bloated mass of skin and cartilage, and had started bleeding again. I grabbed for the dish towel on the counter next to the sink and held it up to my face. Within seconds, it was saturated red.
He came inside and saw me at the sink. I braced myself for more violence from him, maybe this time for ruining his favorite towel, but instead, he put a small, meaty hand on the small of my back and leaned close to my ear and whispered he was sorry. His breath tickled my ear and sent goosebumps down my spine, and the hair on my arms to stand up. He put his head on my shoulder and kept apologizing for losing his temper and hurting me.
“I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry…” he said as he stroked my back. At this point, I didn’t care if he was sorry or not, I just wanted the pain to stop.
Unsure of what to say to him, or what to do, I mumbled it was okay. He started crying, his body shaking as he sobbed on my shirt, soaking the sleeve with his snot and saliva.
After he controlled himself and my bleeding seemed to staunch a little, he suggested we go to the emergency room, but not without concocting a story how my face got busted up. I was to tell the ER staff I was walking down the hallway with an armful of grocery bags and tripped over our imaginary dog; the poor thing is so old and his hearing and eyesight are gone, and he didn’t hear or see me coming, and oops, clumsy me, I fell and smashed my face against the small table in the foyer.
“Got that, babe?” He made me repeat the fabrication to him three times on the way to the hospital to make sure I didn’t fuck it up and get him into trouble. By the time we were at the front desk of the emergency room, I was in such agony, I would have told the nurses anything he wanted me to say to them.
He was fine to me for a few weeks after that incident. I think he felt a little sorry for how badly he hurt me. But he didn’t stop completely; he didn’t lay a finger on me. Instead, he resorted to words.
He liked to drink; I do, too, but the vigor he would drink rivaled even my most overindulging nights. He was unemployed and lived off the allowance his lawyer father gave him a month. Most of the money was spent on alcohol and the occasional bag of weed, sometimes harder stuff like cocaine, but that was only after when he would have a fight with his dad. You’re thirty-seven-years-old. I’m tired of supporting you and your habits. Get a fucking job, you worthless piece of shit. I should have forced your mother to get an abortion. After these fights with his father, he’d call up his friend who knew a guy who knew a dealer and would get him an eight-ball of cocaine. He’d come home, drop the drugs on the living room table, and do lines until he passed out. I prayed to a god I know isn’t there to cause him to overdose, or dream about lacing his drugs with some sort of household chemical and watch him kill himself with each snort through the fucking rolled-up dollar bill. None of these things ever happened.
I would daydream about killing him myself and how I would do it; I work in a doctor’s office as a front desk receptionist and can easily access things, like needles and whatnot. I could inject a syringe full of air into a vein and wait for an embolism to take him, but I’ve seen enough crime shows in my day to know a track mark would raise suspicions and while getting rid of him for good would be tremendously gratifying, the thought of sharing a jail cell with a woman who would undoubtedly make me her bitch wasn’t how I wanted to spend the rest of my life. So I put up with his abuse…for now.
The next time he got physical with me was because I bought the wrong kind of toothpaste.
“You fucking dumb cunt. I use Colgate, not Crest,” he said as he threw the cardboard box at me. The corner caught me in the cheek and it stung immediately. I brought my hand up to my cheek and my finger came away red. I looked at my index finger, then at him. He was standing in the doorway between the hallway and the bedroom where I was folding clothes. He held a bottle of beer in one hand and took a swig off of it, dribbling some of the liquid down his chin and it dripped off and landed on his shirt, causing a dark stain to spread. I wondered how many he had and decided it didn’t matter at this point.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled as I tucked a pair of socks into a ball and tossed it into a laundry basket.
“You’re a worthless cunt, you know that? Worthless. The only thing you’re good for is sucking my cock and even that isn’t that good.”
I continue folding clothes and let the anger boil inside me, taking his words.
“What, no smart-ass response? Or have you accepted the fact you’re a piece of shit cunt?” Another swig of beer, another drop on his shirt. He walked into the room and stood on the other side of the bed and grabbed the laundry basket and flipped it upside down, spilling the contents over the bed and on the floor. “Oops,” he said and then laughed. “Fat bitch. You know, for a fat bitch like you, you have lousy tits. Not worth sucking on.”
His insults built up inside me, but I had tolerance to them, but knew it’d take only a few more before I snapped. I waited patiently for him to run his mouth off more.
“A fat bitch with bad tits and couldn’t save a dick to save your life. Your twat is too loose, too. I’d fuck your asshole, but I don’t know what else you’ve shoved up there and don’t want to take my chances. Fucking cunt slut. You should have stayed in Nebraska, you piece of shit bitch,” he snorted and finished his beer and tossed the empty bottle on the bed. It bounced and landed in front of me. He turned and left the room and I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding. I was both relieved and disappointed I didn’t get to stand up for myself, but knew there would be other opportunities in the future.
He was gone for a few minutes and then came back to the doorway. I saw he had switched from beer to hard liquor and I got a little scared. I know what the hard stuff does to him and suddenly, I don’t know if I’m ready to defend myself against him now. I quickly grabbed the beer bottle and shove it up the sleeve of my sweatshirt.
“Thought you were done with me, didn’t ya, fat cunt?” His words slurring a little.
“I will be one of these days,” I say softly. I pretend to busy myself with fussing over the upset clothes on the bed, but I am moving the bottle down my sleeve into the palm of my hand. I’m standing next to a night table and visualize my next move of slamming the end of the bottle against it to break the end off, hopefully creating a sharp enough edge to inflict some damage to him. I want to do it now, but he isn’t drunk enough yet, meaning he’ll have some reflexes to him still. I must wait until he finishes this drink, which lucky for me, won’t take long as he seems to be in a drinking to get drunk mood.
As if on cue, he takes a long gulp of the liquid. I can smell its boozy sweetness from across the room and scent fills my nostrils. Whiskey…and from the smell of it, straight. No mixer to dull the effect.
The ice cubes clink against the glass as he takes it away from his gaping mouth. I can see the liquid on his lips and he licks them, bringing his fat, pink tongue out of his mouth and sliding them greedily across.
I shudder as he does this and think of all the times he’s been drunk and tries to have sex with me. He makes the same lewd motion with his tongue as he holds me down on the bed, pinning my arms down with his own and uses his body weight to hold me in place, trying to crush me. He reaches down between my legs, forcing them open, and jams himself inside me, grunting at the exertion. I gave up trying to fight back. It’s a common theme between us.
He takes another pull off the glass and empties it in a long gulp. With his head tilted back, he staggers a bit and tries to regain his footing. I take this as the opportunity to strike. The bottle had become sweaty in my palm and I grip it tight, and smash the end against the table. It breaks and I look down, relieved to see a perfect point on the edge, not just a blunt one.
The noise startles him and he fumbles his words, “wha wazzat?”
“Nothing,” I say calmly, but with a swiftness and speed I didn’t know I had in me, I lunge over the bed and clothes and suddenly stand in front of him, the bottle poised in my hand, ready to strike him.
“…the fuck?” he slurs again, and as he lazily reaches an arm up to deflect my movement, I’m far too fast for his drunk self and get him exactly where I mean to: right in the eyeball. The point of the bottle slides in effortlessly and quickly. I hear a faint “pop” as the point first meets his eye, like a pimple. I shove the bottle as far as it will go, then remove it and stab him in the other eye. He’s too stunned to make a sound, which is unnerving to me. I want to hear his screams of agony to see if they match my own for every time he hurt me.
The second stab dropped him to his knees and the edge of the bottle breaks off in his eye socket. I can see the green glass jutting out from his skull. Blood is running down his face, but he remains silent. He remains on his knees for a few seconds longer, then falls forward on his face. I haven’t killed him yet, but it won’t take long for him to go.
I stand over him, watching the blood from his eyes soak the carpet. It’s satisfying to say the least.
This man has been my own personal demon for many months and it was a pleasure to shove him down the door to hell.