DIRTBAG PART TWO

This is a follow on from the first fiction piece DIRTBAG PART ONE

warning

readers might find this subject matter disturbing.

It took a week and a half for the cuts and bruises’ to look... well less bruise like. I took a week off sick to avoid the questions I didn’t want to answer. I had lied for him before but it was getting harder. The four days that followed his ‘mishap’ as he put it, involved constant apologies’, 'I love you', 'I need you', and I will never hurt you again. A whole four days before he was back at the bottom of a bottle.  I didn’t acquire any more cuts or bruises’ but he took advantage of my fear. He pinned me down on the bed and took what he wanted from me.  He over stepped his mark and things for me changed. I sat crying after he passed out. I didn’t know what to do or where to turn. I spoke to my friend, the first time I had ever admitted out loud what he had been doing to me. The moment the words passed my own lips I felt different.

I had thought of leaving more than a few times. I even tried it once-Just once. I made it to the next state over before he found me. He promised me the world on a plate and that he would change and be a better man. It was not long before he had me pinned against the wall by my throat. He said one time that if I ever left him he would find me and kill me. There is nothing quite like a death threat to stop me from leaving.

I took the money I had, some clothes and personal belongings to my friend's. She knew I was up to something but I never told her what. I had never planned for what happened to happen. I was going to get away from him though. That much would come right.

 I didn’t need provoke him; I simply left him to it. I knew it would not be long before he came at me again. Only this time it would be different.  Amazing how love can turn to hate over a short period of time. My skin started to crawl when I was in the same room as him. I could feel my face scorn when I watched him eat, drink or merely watch TV. I had to actively stop myself from recoiling when he kissed or touched me. I had to wait for the right moment to get away from him.

One swing is all it took, one swing fuelled by hate and anger. It did more damage than his many swings of ‘love’. Have I turned into him? Was I sorry? Would I do it again if I had to re-live the situation all over again? Probably not, I may have swung earlier and harder!

 I held his hand in mine while I cried. All that hate and fear I felt for him went away after I sat looking at his limp dead body. 30 seconds past and a new fear kicked in- fuck.