“I own you,” he whispers in my ear again before pushing me to the ground and walking into the house.
The physical pain is a fleeting bandage over the bleeding of my soul, a temporary distraction from the feeling which drowns the inside of my body. With small movements, I push myself up off the cement, open the door, and go in.
Dishes crash in the kitchen, and I slip down the hall to the bathroom.
A woman I no longer recognize is before me in the mirror. The sunken eyes reflect the fear and exhaustion running through me. The tears I want to let go harbour in my chest, waiting for the gate to open.
With damp tissues, I clean the blood from my chin. My lip will heal. It’s been worse than this before. The goose egg growing from my eyebrow isn’t going anywhere soon. It’s stuck, just like me. An aching pulse radiates through my face with its own heartbeat. It syncs with mine, and I open the medicine cabinet to take a couple of pain relievers.
“Clara!”
I jump at his voice, and panic chews at my muscles. I swallow the pills dry and wash my hands before heading to the kitchen.
“This tastes like shit. Why’re you fucking terrible at everything you do?” He slams the bowl onto the counter, and it shatters. Ryan staggers to the fridge and pulls another beer out of the side before sitting at the kitchen table.
Bottles must be lined up out on the patio. I’ll have to remember to clean them up.
“It’s your favourite,” I whisper. “I make it the same way every time.” I walk across the room, gathering the shattered pieces of the bowl and cleaning the brown liquid that spilled down the cupboard.
“All you do is fuck up. Today, you were the stupidest you’ve ever been. I’m gonna teach you tonight how much I own you. Betcha won’t be calling the fucking pigs again.”
The thought of his hands on me chills my blood. Whenever he’s angry, it’s like a monster possesses him, and I end up black and blue the next day.
“I promise I won’t call them again,” I tell him, knowing damn well I won’t as I wipe the counter. They will not assist me. Apparently, they put women in danger. Can’t help me until he kills me.
When I glance at Ryan, his head leans against his shoulder. The alcohol has dimmed him to the point of passing out.
A quick look at the clock shows it isn’t yet past eight, which means I’d have enough time to get to the bus station and leave town before he wakes up. I nudge his leg with my foot, but he doesn’t wake up.
Heart pounding, I rush to the bedroom, tossing clothes into my bag. I don’t have any money, but I know he is holding everything in his back pocket. Ever since I bought some makeup, he’s taken away my allowance, and I realize how fucked up this is.
I can never escape abuse. It will follow me for the rest of my existence. I’ve been a punching bag since I was a child; at this rate, I will never do anything but survive.
Men can’t just continually torture my body and cut into my soul, causing damage that will coat my future in nothing less than anguish and emotional scars.
Twenty-five years of punishment for a crime I never committed—my only offense was being born—living a lifetime of neglect and the psychological prison that I need to break free from. With no hope of change, my dark thoughts return.
Ending my life crosses my mind; I’d never have to deal with anything ever again. Freedom would greet me like a gentle kiss from the universe; however, those who’ve hurt me deserve a far worse fate than death.
Every person to leave a trauma imprint on someone needs to feel the wrath that protects me from the grief I can’t deal with.
Something cracks deep within, and I whip open the closet to grab his belts. I can’t leave because he will always find me, but if he’s dead, he won’t ever be able to touch me again.
His tongue will never lash me with wicked words, and I’ll be free.
Returning to the kitchen, I secure the belts around his wrists and the wooden chair armrests. I fasten his legs to the bottom rungs and move everything away from the table. I open the drawers and pull out our old set of knives and utensils.
Tonight will be the last time he everfuckinghurts me again. Dead men can’t own women.
Three
Burke
Business meetings being cancelled last minute is always a thorn in my side. I hate when nobody bothers to email.
Being the CEO of a company was never really my intention—I had dreams of becoming a dentist or helping someone in different ways. However, when life hands you shit, you focus and work your way up the ladder until you make something of it.
The company does well and pays for a lot of fancy toys, but I’ve been a lonely, stubborn old man for years now who only works. The thought of relaxing seems foreign after putting in all the hours I’ve done, and finding someone to spend my life with has expired.
