Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
And then his hand was slapping hard over my cheek, the stinging pain making me cry out, causing tears to fill my eyes.
I’d never been hit before.
My father had claimed his parents had beaten him for everything and nothing, using their hands, fists, belts, handles of brooms, anything that was close by when they were mad at him. And that he never wanted to do that to me.
The only discipline I’d gotten were lectures and time to ‘think about what I’d done.’
I’d been unprepared for how much it would hurt. Physically, yes. But more so, emotionally.
He’d immediately regretted it. He pulled me against him, pressing kisses all over my face, promising he would never do it again.
You just make me so angry sometimes.
But once someone starts hitting you, they don’t stop.
Somehow—and looking back, I wasn’t sure how he’d managed to make me think this way—I’d started to believe it was just punishment for never being good enough.
He always ‘made it up’ to me. With affection, which he often withheld from me, or praise. Sometimes, even with gifts.
“That was how I got Samson,” I told Atlas, looking over at him as he sat at Atlas’s feet, silently begging for a bite of food. Because he knew Atlas was a sucker, and would give it to him.
It had been the week of Christmas.
And I’d made the mistake of spending Joss’s ‘hard-earned money’ on ‘gaudy’ Christmas decorations. And ‘didn’t I know better?’
Then he’d decided to ‘teach me a lesson’ about it.
And beat me so badly that I’d blacked out, waking up confused, in pain, bloody, finding Joss kneeling next to me, eyes wide.
At the time, I tried to convince myself it was because he was sorry, because he couldn’t believe what he’d done.
Of course, though, it was because he was worried he’d pushed it too far, and I was going to need medical attention. I might tell on him. He might get in trouble.
He’d actually been sweet to me that night, taking me into the bathroom to clean my wounds, then drawing me a bath, and snuggling me to sleep.
When he came home the next day from work, he wasn’t alone.
In his arms was a fluffy little Lab/Golden Retriever mix who’d made my heart swell, even though the immediate thought that followed was how I was going to need to work even harder to keep the apartment clean because of the hair and toys, the accidents as he house trained.
Regardless of the extra work, though, Samson was the bright spot in my dark life. He also provided an outlet that I didn’t realize I’d been missing out on for a long time.
Because by that point, I wasn’t really leaving the apartment anymore.
Joss did the shopping because I bought ‘all the wrong things’ and he didn’t want me ‘buying junk’ that I would ‘sneak’ when he wasn’t around.
He didn’t take me anywhere either.
And because of his jealousy, he didn’t want me going out without him.
So my whole life was confined within the four walls of that apartment.
But because of Samson, I had a valid reason for leaving the apartment. Training Samson. And then, getting his energy out, so he didn’t chew things up.
I inched toward the idea of freedom, just taking him right outside of the building to do his business, but taking longer and longer walks as he got bigger, and I got more comfortable.
Until, eventually, I found myself out of the neighborhood and into town.
And there was where memories came back to me. Of being young and free, so full of hope and eager to experience life. Working hard to save for a car that would lend me even more freedom.
Until Joss slowly but surely stripped it all from me.
Except, of course, he hadn’t taken everything.
It may have been sitting untouched in a bank account for years, but I did still have a small savings.
My mind ran wild with ideas then.
Of getting away.
Of starting over.
Just me and Samson.
But I couldn’t seem to force myself to take steps toward that fantasy.
Not until one fateful night.
When Joss finally did something completely unforgivable.
I’d been preparing dinner, but had to stop to see why the washing machine tucked in our bedroom closet was knocking.
I was gone for all of two minutes.
But in that time, it seemed that Samson had smelled the meat on the counter, and had jumped up to steal it.
Pissed, Joss had charged off the couch that was starting to have a permanent ass print from him always parking there, had grabbed him by the collar, and lifted him up off of the floor by it.
He still had him strung up, dangling, choking, when I came back out.
He could hurt me. Tear me down. Beat me.
But he couldn’t put his hands on Samson.
I flew at him, slamming my hands into his chest, shocked by my strength when he flew backward, the counter cracking across his back.