**tw: chapter contains brief segments of domestic violence, attempted rape, drug use / abuse**
TEN YEARS LATER
LOS ANGELES, CA - AUGUST 1983
Nevaeh
An abrupt jerk of my body causes the back of my skull to collide into something stiff and sturdy, sending an acute shockwave of soreness spiraling throughout my already aching core, snatching me out of my slumber and coaxing me to stir around in my seat.
Painkillers must've worn off. Again.
The overabundance of bruises that shroud the entire span of my spine, both of my shoulders, arms, thighs, ribcage and all of the remaining areas in between; some of which have begun the healing process, some of which are brand new, but all of which I was oh, so fortunate to have obtained at the heinous hands of my spiteful, ex-boyfriend as of 4:00 yesterday morning, begin to throe, throb and thrum all over again beneath the thin, threadbare cloak of clothing currently concealing them.
And that's only on the outside.
Needless to say, this wasn't a spontaneous attack, nor was it the first one. This was him showcasing who he truly was hidden under the guise of his sweet shopping sprees and extravagant gift giving gestures that always amplified after a long night of having treated me like his personal punching bag with a pulse for the millionth time in the six strenuous years we were together–only this time, it was his last.
Contrary to what plenty of people have said not only about me, but straight to me, along with what I'm sure others must think, considering I once shared similar thoughts about myself, I'm not an idiot.
I knew after the first time that he'd hit me and surprised me with a necklace the next morning that it was wrong, but by the time I had finally connected the dots between his brutual beatings and the profuse pampering following them, it was too late.
I was in three years too deep to abandon him by that point. He was cunning, calculated, cautious. He knew better than to engage in any behaviors he figured would've been an immediate red flag to me until I was good and brainwashed, as well as madly in love with him long before he dared to lay a finger on me.
He also made damn sure that he never struck me directly in my face or any other parts of my body that he claimed to be "too pretty to bruise" once he started, to which he stayed true for the most part, give or take a few minor scratches here and there, which he stated I "could've easily given to myself" somehow and a couple of other incidents where he "accidentally" busted my lip or bruised my collarbones.
Besides, it's not like he ever would've allowed me to up and leave him; not without a fight, anyway. That's why I had to resort to sneaking out of his house like a rebellious teenager and quite literally go on the run to my sister's house all the way out in Los Angeles.
It was crucial for me to be long gone by the time he came back from who the fuck knows where even higher than he was when he left. He had already chokeslammed me up against a wall for simply questioning him about where it was he was going at midnight so hard that he managed to leave visible, eggplant-purple bruise marks where his hand had boa-constricted around my throat, then proceeded to try and rape me again right after.
If he'd caught me trying to leave him after that, there's not one doubt in my mind that he finally would've killed me, whether it be accidental or intentional.
