painkillers. - H.S ✔

scrub

"Don't do this baby. You know I love you. We love each other." He pleaded, my hand shook on the doorknob. Tears clouded my eyes and fell onto my cheeks.

"Stop. Stop!" I screamed I couldn't take it anymore. Maybe I did love him. But the endless fights were enough. I knew what would happen tonight, I would run away and come back a day later. Practically begging for him to forgive me.

"I'm sorry Mari. Don't leave me. I love you." I sunk to my knees, losing my grip on the doorknob and covering my eyes with my hands and sobbing into them.

"Don't cry. I'm sorry." He said that a lot. And every time, I'd believe that he was sorry. That he loved me and that he would never do anything more to hurt me. Because he loved me to infinity.

He came closer to me, attempting to pull me into a hug as he always did. I pushed him away, and reached for the doorknob for support. I pulled myself up and wiped away my tears. This was it. I was getting out.

Or no.

I fell back into the door in shock as a searing pain shot through my left cheek. He had hit me.

-

I showered the thoughts out of my mind. The dirty feeling off of my skin. That was only the first time. I just couldn't get the memory to sink down into the drain, to leave my mind.

I scrubbed at my bare body. The feeling of fear, the feeling of doubt wouldn't wash off my skin. Sometimes I felt like I should leave. But his smile, everything about him always brought me back.

Because we loved each other. And I couldn't just pack up and leave.

Sometimes I would try to wash off the bruises and marks on my arms, on my body. But I then realized that I couldn't wash off regret. This had happened for a reason. I was being an idiot and I stumbled into Trent's dark side. This was my fault.

I laid back, facing the faucet. The water began to turn cold, as the air from the open window hit it. I splashed water onto my face. It stung the cut on my bottom lip and I took in the pain.

It's your fault. It's always your fault.

I heard him calling my name from the kitchen. I pulled the plug from the drain and stepped out, pulling a towel over my frail body. It was dinner. But I wasn't very hungry.

I pulled on a pair of old ripped jean shorts and a loose pastel yellow tank top. I took one last glance at myself in the mirror and then walked to the kitchen where I was greeted with Trent's smile. His eyes wandered up and down my body. His brows furrowed and he dropped the white dinner plate onto the counter.

"You look like you're asking for it."

You look like a slut.

He was trying to say. I was used to it by now. He'd throw things whenever we went out in public and I wore something even remotely revealing. My sister had sent me a beautiful marble vase in the mail for my twentieth birthday. We were going to the grocery store to buy some greens for a salad and I'd thrown on an off-the-shoulder white shirt by random. He'd told me to change and I had refused.

Long story short, pieces of the vase were scattered on the floor beside the TV and I was forced to stay at home. Attempting to scrub the guilt and cuts off of my skin.

Trent sat down at the tiny wooden table and shoved his fork into his green beans. I picked at mine. Trent and I had a good relationship when he was happy. He'd tickle me and make me laugh, his eyes such a beautiful blue that they couldn't even compete with the sky.

After Trent's remark, I felt dirty. I felt like I needed another bath. I felt like a slut.

"What? Do you not like it?" He asked, growing angrier by the minute. I shook my head, "I love it. It's just...I'm not really-"

Trent's fork clattered on his plate. Trent stood up and kicked his chair into the wall. Where a previous hole sat. He'd done this before.

"I'm not really hungry." He mimicked, slamming his fists onto the dinner table only centimeters from where I sat. I looked down at my lap, noticing that my shorts were very short. Trent was right. He was always right.

"Shut the fuck up Marielle. You're so fucking ungrateful for what I do for you." He spat into my face. I flinched as he banged his fists down once more. This was all my fault.

"I-I'm sorry." I didn't know what else to say. I couldn't get any words out of my mouth. Without anymore words, he pushed the place off of the table and onto me. The green beans falling onto my lap and the steak staining my shirt. He walked away, kicking the wall and slamming the bedroom door behind him.

I sighed and tried to sniffle back the tears that just flowed down my cheeks.

I loved him. I loved him. I loved him.
He loved me. He loved me. He loved me.

I would whisper those words to myself after every fight. Just to remember that we were supposed to be together. I just made him mad. All couples fight.

I wiped the steak off of my shirt and threw the ruined food into the trash. I paused at the trash can and banged my head against the fridge. The fridge that had photos of the two of us pinned to it. When he was happy, when we were happy. Before he hit me. Before he yelled at me. When he said that he loved me no matter what. When he held me close in his arms.

Everything is okay.

-
American hotline for domestic abuse:1-800-799-SAFE (7233).

Website link for more information and numbers:
http://www.thehotline.org

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