Ripped At Every Edge

When I was five my older brother strapped me to a knee board in our pool. He pushed me around all afternoon, splashing me. At one point, we both grew thirsty. “Wait here,” he had told me, and he rushed off to grab some water. I’m unsure how, but at one point I lost my balance, and tipped right over, still strapped to the board. I panicked, flailing in the water uncontrollably. Trying to breathe air again. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t flip back over. I was under for so long that I started to lose consciousness. My thoughts got hazy. I calmed down. I remember thinking that if this was death, it wasn’t so bad. It was sort of peaceful. Until I felt two arms pull me out of the water and start pounding on my chest. Then everything began to hurt like hell.

Lying here, now, my body broken and bruised, felt a lot like that.

________________________________________________________________________

*hours prior

I often wonder how I ended up here. If I could pinpoint the exact moment when life started to go to shit, maybe I could understand it better. Because right now, as I’m standing in the shower, the water washing away the dried blood from my hair, a pool of red collecting at my feet, I’m having a real hard time understanding.

I let my hair fall in my face. My vision becomes blocked by a mess of dirty blonde. I feel my eyes start to sting as my unwashed makeup starts to run, the tears are falling and I barely even notice. I cry a lot lately. Maybe I’m just adapting. My stomach was in knots by what I was planning to do tonight. I was scared to run.

I hear footsteps coming up the stairs and my heart automatically starts to race. I pull my head up, wiping the underneath of my eyes and shutting the water off. I grab my towel and try to cover myself before a tall figure steps into the room. Steps is a gracious word. Stumbles is more accurate. Sam is drunk. Again. I’m pushed up against the sink, pretending to look at myself in the mirror. I feel a sharp pain in my side as it barely touches the edge of the sink. I try not to look at the deep purple starting to appear under my eye from just moments before my shower. His head is heavy and his eyes are on me. I see him staring through the mirror.

He steps up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waste and resting his chin on my shoulder. I can smell the alcohol on his breath.

He starts running his finger along the line of my jaw. I tense up as he whispers in my ear, “I’m ‘so sorry, baby,” his words are slurred, his voice hoarse. I smile at his reflection in the mirror.

“I know,” I say, my voice slightly shaking. I try to look assured, like every fiber in my body isn’t screaming at me to get the hell out.

He starts kissing my neck, and his hands run sloppily down my body. I close my eyes, pretending to enjoy his touch like I used to. Instead, I felt like throwing up.


Sam was in a rage when he hit me. I should have known better than to suggest he put the bottle down. But I hated it when he was drunk. “Baby, have you had enough?” I had asked casually, going to put the liquor away. I knew better than to tell him what to do.

Sam looking tired. Pretty incapacitated if you asked me. Which was good I guess. The harder he slept, the easier it would be for me to leave without him noticing. I helped lead him to the bed. He barely made it, and that was with me having to hold half his weight. He collapsed with a loud sigh, not bothering to take off his dark jeans or stained white shirt.

I waited in the bathroom for a while, waiting until I heard his deep snores to come out. I took a deep breathe, finally feeling safe enough to let my towel fall to the floor. I dressed quickly. Just in an old pair of shorts and an old flannel. I button it up quickly before grabbing a duffel and throwing whatever I could in it.

I crept downstairs, stealing money out of Sam’s wallet and shuffling around the house desperate to collect everything I needed. I was stupid, I left the light off and knocked into something, causing a loud ruckus. Something clattered to the floor. I gasped, jumping to the side, my heart in my throat. I waited for what felt like the longest minute of my life until I felt safe that Sam didn’t wake up.

I resumed, going through all the rooms, making sure there was little trace of me left behind. It wasn’t until I’d reached the living room, that I set my duffel on the table, quietly going through it, arranging the checklist in my head. I had everything. I could leave. I was ready to go, finally, after two years, I was ready to go.

Or so I thought. Except, when I turned to leave, I was met by a dark figure in the door frame. My breath caught in my throat. My bag was clutched in my hand.

“What’re you doing?” Sam’s voice was still slurred, a mixture of tiredness and alcohol.

I played it cool, trying to reassure him. “Nothing baby, go back to bed, I just knocked something over, sorry I woke you.”

Sam moved closer, as my eyes adjusted to the darkness I could make out more prominent features in his face. Like the way his lips were pursed into a thin, angry line. Or the way his eyes were narrowing at the sight of my duffel bag.

Sam was a mean drunk but he wasn’t stupid. He knew.

I clutched my bag and made a run for it, trying for the alternative exit of the living room. My shaky legs failed me as I felt a strong grip around my wrist. I cried out as Sam pulled me in, and shoved me against the back wall.

His breath was hot against my skin as his face was just inches away from mine. “I asked, what are you doing?” he breathed. I could sense the anger boiling in his blood.

I turned my face away, struggling against his grip. “I’m leaving,” I whisper, barely audible.

“What was that?” he asked sharply, pulling me up and slamming my body harder into the wall.

I whimper.

“You think you’re fucking leaving?” he asks.

I nod slowly, right before his fist connects with my jaw.

I fall to the floor, immediately pulling my hand up to my face. I’m on the ground now, and I know only too well what that means. Sam pulls his leg back and kicks me hard, against my already bruised rib. I gasp out.

I’m pleading for him to stop, but I know he won’t. He’s in a rage, and once you piss Sam off, he’s impossible to calm down.

I’m lifted off the floor in a rush, and he twists my arm behind my back too hard, I feel a pop in my shoulder, and my entire arm goes numb. Pain radiates my entire being. I’m up against the wall again, this time with my face pushed against the wallpaper. I’m crying, pleading with Sam desperately.

“Baby,” I whisper, trying to soothe him. But he’s too far gone, yelling things like “bitch and whore” in my ear. I close my eyes tightly before looking up to the picture frame above my head. It’s one of those stupid “Home is Where the Heart Is” quotes crocheted in a frame but I grab it with my good arm desperately and bring it down on top of Sam’s head as hard as I can. The glass shatters around us, cutting up the bottom of my legs. Sam stumbles back, enough time for me to grab my duffel and run like hell.

If you’ve ever been chased by a sibling or parent in a playful way, and felt that slight ping in your chest as they’re about to catch you, it’s nothing compared to the fear I feel running to the front door. I pry it open, not bothering to close it behind me as I run down the driveway.

I hear Sam behind me. And I know how fast he is.

I run up the street as fast as I can. I can’t even hear my feet hitting the pavement because my heart is beating so heavily.

Sam is yelling something at me, I’m not paying any attention though. All my thoughts are focused on escape as I run through the dark London street. It isn’t for at least half a mile that I finally risk turning around. Sam isn’t anywhere in sight. I take a moment to clutch my side, throbbing from the beating I’d just received. I’m gasping for air and I feel blood from the cut on top of my head start trickling down my forehead.

All it takes is a second of me not paying attention for me to feel the firm grip of Sam’s hand around a clump of my hair. I cry out as he pulls at my locks, he practically drags me down the deserted street. I’m kicking and I’m screaming, when he lets me fall to the ground.

“Stupid bitch!” he yells at me gripping my broken arm. I yell out in pain. He’s trying to drag me back to the house. But I’ve come too far. I can’t let him win. I turn around and kick my leg between his legs, connecting to his groin, hard. This time, Sam’s the one to yell. He falls to his knees, and I waste no time in starting to run again.

My head is spinning and blood is falling into my eyes. I can’t see, everything’s blurring, but I keep going. I’m becoming sluggish. My body is starting to fail me. Everything hurts.

I finally get to a busier street, praying a car might drive by, but then I remember it’s close to 3am. I’m still running though. I want as much space between Sam and me as humanly possible. My strides are getting smaller. I’m practically dragging my body along the side of the road when my shadow suddenly pops up. I see my hair in the dark silhouette, scattered and looking messy. I feel like my consciousness is fading, when I realize that in order to see my shadow, I need light. I turn around blindly to see a set of headlights coming my way. I start waving my hands frantically, and open my mouth to scream. Not much is coming out. Just a mess of sobs and desperation.

To my relief the car does slow down. It pulls over just in time. Because my legs feel weak, and as I start to cross the road over to the car my head feels heavy and before I know it, I’m crashing into the pavement.

My head connects with the ground and a loud crack echoes through the night air and that’s when everything stops hurting. My thoughts got hazy. I calm down. I remember thinking that if this was death, it wasn’t so bad. It was sort of peaceful.

Notes