Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 26698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
I’m not your average girl. I’m not even the prettiest girl, with my pierced tongue, eyebrow, and lip. The white-blond dreadlocks on my head are a harsh contrast to my dark hair I grew up with.
Stark.
Cold.
Just like me.
I run my finger along the scar that runs from my thigh up to my rib cage. A bumpy line that has healed since it was inflicted, but to the touch, it still burns. I recall the night it happened. When he finally had enough of my stupidity. I call it that because it’s what I’d gotten used to hearing. It’s what he made me believe about myself.
Somehow, I believed things would change, but they didn’t. It was the night of my twentieth birthday when he came home from the bar stinking of cheap perfume and vodka soaked with lime. I recall the pain, the silence of the room, and then, the sounds of him hovering over me.
I waited.
I breathed.
They all told me it was abuse, but I didn’t see it. I was blinded by love. That sickly sweet emotion every person hungers for. The promise we all seek out as if it’s the answer to our prayers. Let me tell you something for nothing, it’s not the solution. Love is far from the answer.
Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I note the other bumps and healed cuts and burns. They all make up a kaleidoscope of a story I will never tell. I recall the various blues and purples—the yellows and greens that once adorned my skin.
A rainbow of pain.
The color of agony and trust all melded into something vicious that stole everything from me. There’s a niggle in my ribs, just below my breasts, that serves as a stark reminder of that night. If I close my eyes, it’s like I’m transported right back there. When certain movements were so painful, I couldn’t breathe.
That wasn’t the first time, and it certainly wasn’t the last. The abuse continued for weeks, months, then years. I struggled to clean the apartment we shared, to make his dinner while trying to be the good wifey he wanted. Only, I was never a wife, not even a girlfriend, I was a punching bag.
Inhaling deeply as I prod at the other scars, I blink back the tears. I’m broken. I doubt I will ever heal. But it’s the exhale that hurts the most when I remember how I lay in bed the next morning thinking I was dead. I felt the movement of my chest, and it was as if my ribs wanted to expunge themselves from my body. Attempting to push themselves from my chest, through the porcelain flesh.
It wanted to escape. In the end, I finally did.
I allow my fingers to trace each one gently. They no longer protrude from my torso. I’m looking a lot healthier.
I don’t know how long it will be until he figures out I’m not in America anymore. Or how long until his contacts track me down. He’ll find me. He always does. But for now, I’ll live a life of freedom, of safety. At least, I’ll try to.
My body still aches, as if the ghost of the pain is still there. My heart hurts from knowing I’ll never be normal. And deep down, my soul has given up on me.
I allowed it to happen.
It’s my fault.
Sighing, I head back into the bedroom where I get dressed. I share the space with another young woman just like me. The roommate I’ve been assigned is one of the patients who stayed on even after she healed from her injuries. She chose to hide. They’ve put her in here with me so she can ensure I don’t try something stupid.
They don’t have to say it. I see it in their eyes.
She’s quiet, a sweet girl who’s had an eating disorder due to bullying. The sadness that tugs at me whenever I see her is unfounded. I don’t know her. But when I glance at her in the clothes she wears, it scares me that someone would go to such lengths to feel beautiful or to be accepted by a man. But then again, didn’t I do the exact same thing?
I’ve learned that nobody in this place is judge or jury. Least of all me because that would make me a hypocrite. Each time I woke up with bruises, cuts, and burns on my flesh, I lied. I hid what was really happening. And now I’m in here.
A home for people with problems.
A home for adults who can’t control their addictions. The abuse of drugs, alcohol, and anything else society deems wrong. We’re meant to heal, to be able to walk into the real world as responsible adults.
Only, I’m not ready to be an adult yet. At least, not in the sense most believe.