The front door slams. I lean against the kitchen counter and slide to the cold tile floor. Blood oozes from where the broken plate hit my forehead, running into my eyes. My hands tremble as I try to wipe it away. Taking a breath hurts like hell; probably another broken rib. The silent house brings relief.
As the adrenaline disappears, pain erupts through my body. Uncertain, about walking, I crawl to the kitchen and pull myself up using the towel bar on the stove. I lean into its mechanical warmth and, by habit, touch the off button. There will be no roast with parsley potatoes tonight.
Laughter tries to bubble up, but I shove it back down as I look around the kitchen. The poor potatoes are smeared on the floor, along with specks of green parsley and broken china. An open bottle of untouched white wine stands patiently on the island, staring at me. It is flanked by two tall crystal wine glasses.
I wonder how I will explain this new broken rib to Bob. I’ll have to see him; the rib needed to be taped. He’s my friend, as well as my doctor. There have been too many ‘accidents’ lately. Excuses aren’t working anymore. I remember his words of concern as he examined my swollen eye two weeks ago.
“The eye’s okay. Use lots of ice. But this has to stop! You need help. It’s getting worse.” He didn’t even bother to give “IT” a name. We both knew what was happening.
“I know. I always plan to make the call. But things get better and time passes. I always believe it’ll all be okay. Try to understand, Bob. This is the love of my life.”
“How can you love someone who does this to you? Get out! At least, leave the house. Then you can work on saving your marriage. As a friend, I’m begging you!”
As usual, I promised to make the call, but things got better and I forgot.
I push off the stove and lumber over to the sink, splashing my face. Pink-tinted water runs down the drain. Bob’s right. This has to stop. What’s worse is I can stop it, but this scares me even more – what might happen if I actually did try to stop it.
I grab a towel and press it to the cut on my forehead. The phone rings, but I let it go. I know who’s calling, begging my forgiveness. The anger always wears off in about thirty minutes. This is a familiar pattern.
Soon, the apologies will start, the little gifts will show up and the sex will be wonderful and loving. I will forget this is the person who beats me. Time will drift by with nothing happening, encouraging me to believe again.
Then one day, I’ll say or do something wrong. Without warning, the blue eyes I love to watch will turn mean, the face I love to touch will become red, and the mouth I love to kiss will spew ugly words. That’s when I’ll know what’s going to happen.
I stare at the clock. There’s only fifteen minutes left. My stomach clinches as I grab my cell phone, car keys, and yank open the garage door. A long time ago, I’d put a bag of clothes and other necessities in my car trunk, hidden under the extra tire. Somehow, my head knew this moment would come, even as my heart denied it.
My rib aches and the wound on my head stings as the car bumps along the highway. I park near Bob’s house, knowing he’ll take me in. Turning off the engine, I stare into the dark street. The fall leaves rustle in the slight breeze. I can smell snow on its way.
Soon, this street will be full of bright holiday decorations. In my mind, I see happy families warming themselves by the fireplace, children laughing and trying to guess their gifts. It’s the life I’ve always wanted. It’s the life we talk about, in between. It’s the life I will never have, if I stay.
Pushing my hopes aside, I grab the cell phone on the seat beside me and dial the numbers from memory. I listen to the beeps as my finger hits each number and grip the phone as it rings in my ears.
The voice that answered is soft and feminine with a slight Southern accent. “Hello, you have called The Domestic Hotline. My name is Janet. Tell me your story. I want to help.”
Tears flood my face as I reply. “My name is Mark. I need your help. My wife is abusing me.”
What about men?
This story is loosely based on prompt # 142 from The Writing Reader about manipulation and abuse. As I thought about this topic, I realized we talk mostly about women being abused. I know I do, but this got me to thinking. What about men?
Unfortunately, there’s not a lot of data or even sites specifically addressing domestic violence against men. Granted, women are 7 to 10 times more likely to be harmed in domestic violence than men, but men are less likely to report this abuse. Would the numbers be higher if they did?
Time to think…
As this is a Thinking Thursday post, I hope this story will encourage you to think about domestic violence against men. You might write a post about it or just speak up when someone talks about domestic violence and only mentions women – remind them that men can also be victims.
Photo by Eduard Titov
