When we got married, he was perfect. He had whisked me away and promised to take care of me and love me despite all my flaws. The controlling side of him only came out after I’d left everything behind to be with him, and his temper became unpredictable.
There were no warning signs at the beginning. It was a slow spiral into isolation and control under the guise of caring for me and giving me a comfortable life. He had promised to save the money for me to start at the local community college, had insisted I stay home and relax instead of working since he could pay the bills on his own. By the time I had realized what was happening, it was too late. His job as a police officer only made it worse; It’d be much harder to run away when he had access to any resource to find me.
I tried it once before. It didn’t end well.
The TV flashes with news snippets, but I attempt to tune it out. Joel prefers the sensationalized “news” channels, where every fact is coated in multiple layers of opinions, most of them attempting to pit people against each other. It’s vile, but Joel refuses to consider the validity of the stories because they give him something to be angry about, someone to blame for the state of the world. He values the justification of his outrage more than fact or logic.
I’ve learned to tune it all out for my own sanity. Even thefactual news stories tend to drive me deeper into an already suffocating despair. Death, devastation, violence, money. People feed on the negativity, letting it fester and grow until it’s spread like a disease.
I used to have hope that the world would become a better place. But right now, it’s hard now to have hope for the world when I can’t even muster up enough hope for myself.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I announce when I can’t take any more of the divisive bullshit being spewed onscreen.
Joel grunts in acknowledgement, and I make my way through our bedroom. Just before I make it to the master bathroom door, something snags my attention from the window. A small flicker of movement, but it’s enough to make my heart race.
I flick off the bedroom light to allow myself to see out into the dark and make my way toward the window. Is it him?
Bringing my forehead to the cold glass, I peer out into the impenetrable darkness of the night, searching for any sign of movement.
Shadows flicker, and I hold my breath, but disappointment wells inside me when I realize it’s just the headlights of an old truck rumbling down the street.
I stare for minutes, though it feels like hours, searching the darkness for any sign he might be out there, but am jolted out of my trance when the bedroom lights snap on.
“What are you looking at?”
I gasp, my heart racing, and step back from the window.
“Nothing.”
Joel’s eyes narrow as he stalks over to the window and peers out, searching for whatever has caught my attention. Of course, he finds nothing.
“I thought I heard an owl outside. I was trying to find it, but I can’t see one,” I offer in explanation.
Joel raises an eyebrow but simply shakes his head and walks back out of the room.
I use the restroom, wash my hands, and take one more peek out the window. Of course, he’s not there, but maybe I’ll at least see him in my dreams tonight. It would be nice to have a final encounter for closure.
Before joining Joel back on the couch, I grab an empty notebook and pen before taking the side of the couch opposite Joel. I should write some sort of note, right? But to who? Joel isn’t going to care if I leave one. And he’ll be pissed if I end up writing what I really think. I can see it now: “Dear Joel, I hope you become a better person who doesn’t abuse women to the point that they feel their only option is suicide. Thanks for nothing, and I’ll see you in Hell.”
Yeah, maybe not.
But someone will care, right?
I think about my parents next, the way they’d sit and smoke cigarettes on the rotting wooden front porch every evening, the gray smoke curling into the beams above as they told me to go keep myself occupied. They didn’t even want me around as a child, which they frequently reminded me of by making thinly-veiled jokes about me being an “accident.” I spent summers making self-proclaimed witch’s potions in the back yard out of dirt, leaves, and whatever else I could find, and spent winters at the small library down the street.
So far, I’ve spent thirty years being unwanted and having nothing to show for the time. No accomplishments, no job, no friends. Nothing.
“What are you doing?” Joel’s voice startles me from my contemplation.
“Nothing. I was going to write down some books I wanted to get at the library tomorrow, but I forgot the titles.”
I close the notebook without writing anything. A note won’t matter anyway.
Joel gives a sound of acknowledgment, though his attention is still trained on the TV.
“Actually,” I say, “I think I’m gonna go to bed. I have a bit of a headache.”
“Alright. I’ll be there as soon as the news is over.”
