If I choose a dating show, would he call me a whore and ask if that’s what I wanted? A bunch of men's attention?
If I watch a weight loss show, would he call me disgusting and fat again?
If I choose a competitive singing show, he’d find a way to bring up my singing at the lounge, as that’s what made him beat me so brutally the night before.
I frown, finding a problem with every show I click past. My heart races even faster, and to my horror I feel something like hate bloom in my chest as I realize I'm beginning to truly resent him for making me feel this way. It's a freaking TV show, not a monumental decision to be made. I shake my head, lamenting at the four years just down the drain, wasted. My twenties.
My precious youth.
He moves closer, and I turn my head slightly, feeling my face heat as he strolls lazily to me. His footsteps sound out unevenly as he stumbles slightly, under the influence.
“There’s chicken salad if you want some!”Brandon mocks back at me in a baby voice. “You already cook like those fat southern women," he says in his normal tone, getting an ugly expression on his face. "I guess that’s what’s coming next, huh? You’re gunna let yourself get fat?” He bends down to put his face inches away from mine, cocking his head to the side in a blatant challenge.
Recoiling my head, I eye him, staying silent. No woman should ever be made to feel challenged by a man.
He doesn't relent. I turn my face away to hide as my eyes well up with sadness, this time at his childish, uncalled for behavior. Silently I will him to back off.
“Bitch,” he spit out roughly, turning and tripping over his feet as he walks back into the kitchen.
At least he's not hitting me.
I can deal with degradation; I just don't want to be hit.
Not knowing where to put my gaze, I just sit here quietly and stare off towards the wall, trembling and upset, wishing I could call my dad. Craving softness from him. To know that he'd want to protect me and tell me I'm going to be okay.
I flinch when Brandon pulls a cabinet drawer out so aggressively that it comes off its hinges and clatters noisily to the floor. But I continue to stay quiet as he curses about how stupid I am, and how promiscuous I am for performing at the lounge two nights a week like a whore.
My gaze falls to my lap where my fingers fidget. I didn't even need to click on any show, honestly. He's giving me a spectacle to watch, a live experience in degradation. My lips quiver as the image of my fingers distort.
What did I ever do to you to make you treat me this way? I thought you loved me. You told me that we’re in this life together…
My heart tugs as I continue to sit quietly.
A tear falls down my cheek as I clench my hands, imagining I'm holding the hand of someone who cares about me. Someone who will hold their hand out for me to take and pull me into them, wrapping me in their arms and assuring me that I'll come out of this thing in one piece. I imagine the hand gripping mine is someone who wants to comfort me. Wants me.
Why does no one want me?
Even my own dad doesn't like me.
The realization makes my heart skip a beat, because it hits me that I truly have daddy issues, and this is why I was so blind to Brandon's antics. I contemplate how he'd never betrayed any negative feelings to me before the pregnancy about my sidegig. His hot and cold behavior leaves me reeling and confused. Because Brandon used tolovemy singing and the fact that I was talented.
He would sit in the front row and clap with the others in the audience, smiling brightly as I performed. I guess it turns out it was all a façade. All of it. Every second. And that hurts to the bone, and even deeper, if possible.
I don't know if I'll ever trust again.
Feeling like my heart is shattering to pieces, I begin to grieve the Brandon that I used to know. Mourn the man that is apparently no longer there in any fashion. I hug my arms close to myself and sniff, feeling more alone than I've ever felt before.
I wish I could go home to my parents. If that were a possibility, I'd leave tonight. Start over again.
"Stupid bitch," Brandon mutters.
There's a scuffle as he slips on a utensil he'd stepped on in the kitchen.
Tears slide unchecked down my face as I look back up and do my best to turn on a show to ignore him, keeping the volume low as I wipe gently at my cheeks with the sleeve of my cardigan, trying to not draw attention to myself. I attempt to mentally retreat, worried that if I tried to leave right now, Brandon really would put his hands on me and put me in the hospital.
Breathing deeply, I force myself to calm down. Trying to mentally remember the guided meditation I followed this morning in the car, I place my hand on my tummy again.
Don’t worry; I’ll love you enough for the both of us, Bumpy.
