Fight Inside

Repost of story. Beware, may be triggering.

It’s breaking me... I don’t think I can stand the pain anymore. My heart pounds against my chest, threatening to break out and show the world the horror of me. I collapse on the floor, my hands fisted in the fine hair at my temples. I feel each strand loosen as I pull it out. The pain is nothing compared to what I feel inside. I scream, “IT’S EVERYTHING!” as I slam my palms to the ground, bloodying my knuckles. Deep breaths, deep breaths....... I pound the ground, scream till my voice is raw and my throat is numb. I’m falling apart. I’m falling apart and nothing can be done.

Footsteps echo on the stairs and I gasp for air. The door creaks open and he steps in, taking in the scene with hard brown eyes. “Honestly Clara, I expected more of you.” I glare up at him, my chest heaving. He strides across the room, his boots heavy on the plank boards of the floor. His hand grips my upper  arm as he yanks me up from my position crumpled on the floor. I don’t cry out, I’m too used to it. I raise my eyes to his face, to his eyes. They are cold and unfeeling. He doesn’t care one mite for me.

“Here we are then, love.” He yanks me forward roughly, and I stumble after him. “Let go,” I whisper hoarsely, and he snaps his head around to stare at me. “What did you say?” His hand squeezes tighter on my arm, and I wince. “Huh?” He leans his face close to mine, and I can taste the alcohol on his breath. The smell is so bad, I turn my face away. “That’s what I thought.”

He pounds the door open and pulls me down the stairs to the kitchen. “Make dinner.” he says, and leaves. I can hear him turn on the football game in the living room. I realize I’m shaking where I stand, and I pull out a chair from the kitchen table and sit. My breath shudders as much as my limbs, and my mouth tastes of blood. Surprisingly, my only thought is, I can’t cook. But I’ll try. I stand up and open the pantry, looking for a boxed pasta. In the other room, he yells at the players on the screen, and I flinch, dropping the box I’m holding. “Hey, what are you doing in there!” he yells, and I take a deep breath. “Nothing, Kyle...” I say, kneeling down to pick up the box.

I should have called. Mary would have been happy to take me in, her and her happy life. Or maybe  I could go to Mother’s - No, that would be the first place he’d look. I sigh and yank a pot from the cupboard, causing a clamor that makes me cringe. I can hear him shouting, but I don’t care anymore. I take the pot - big enough for a whole chicken - to the sink and fill it with water hot enough to burn my skin. I let the sink overflow as I stare out the window into the yard. It takes a moment before I realize that my hands, scarred already, are completely submerged in the hot water. I don’t bother to remove them. I close my eyes and tilt back my head, mouth open.

Strong hands grab me and pull me away from the sink. My hands catch on the edge of the pot and pull it over, water spilling over the edge of the sink and onto the floor. I scream as he pushes me against the cabinets. He doesn’t speak, just hits me, again and again, till I am a crumpled mess on the floor. “Please,” I cry, “PLEASE!”

It’s the neighbor, Jeremy Lewes, who finds me. He broke the window to get in, setting off one of His many alarms. I hear his voice, soft yet deep, say “Oh my God....” as he sees me. I can’t move, it hurts too much. I hear him talking to someone - on the phone: “Excuse me? Yeah, I have an emergency. My neighbor, she’s been beat up, pretty bad.... Yes. 2212 Sycamore Lane... Thank you.” Then his voice is in my ear and he’s lifting me up in his arms. “Clara, are you all right?” he asks, “Who did this......”

The police arrive soon, with an ambulance and the fire department right behind. I’m rushed away, to where I can heal. I don’t know where He went. I hope he’s gone forever.