When did life become so hard? When did it become about survival? I can’t remember.
Yes, I do.
It all started when I met Kenneth Hasting, the handsome older guy who paid me attention the summer after I graduated from high school. I fell in love fast and hard. He was the first man I ever loved, so two months after we started dating and he wanted to marry me, why would I say no? He was perfect.
Until I woke up the next morning thinking it was the start of a beautiful life and he hit me. It was like a different man possessed his body, but really, he had been a really great actor in search of a girl he could boss around and use as a punching bag.
I fit his criteria to the T.
I asked him once if he hated me so much why he would continue to be with me, which only earned another slap across the face. He said I was his only one. That he loved me. And the days when he actually shows me that he loves me, which are few and far between, has me falling into him all over again.
Well, it used to.
His love isn’t love.
It’s manipulation.
He can keep his gifts when he feels bad. He can keep his fake love.
I no longer believe in it or in him.
Or in me.
He has beaten me down to the point where I’m too weak to attempt to leave. Risking my father’s life isn’t worth it. I have a roof over my head and food on the table. It could be worse.
The bed is soft and forgiving, tempting me to crawl under the fluffy emerald comforter. I could forget the world for a few hours and sink into the mattress, let the pillow catch my tears, and hope my dreams take me somewhere else.
As tempting as it is, I can’t succumb to weakness, not yet.
I’m not ready.
I push myself up and roll out of bed, wiping my cheeks with the back of my hands and wincing as I rub over a new bruise.
Stripping off my clothes, I head into the master bathroom and turn on the shower. While the spray hits the tiled floor, I stare at myself in the mirror.
Bruises everywhere.
And every bruise represents a moment I didn’t try to fight. I need to dig deep for my fucking will, the give a damns, and the need to want more for myself than this. I’ve been tired for so long that I’ve grown numb to the pain he gives.
When is my breaking point?
Unable to look at my abused self in the mirror any longer, I step into the shower stall and close my eyes as the water hits against my back. My shoulder twinges in pain and I know by the end of the day I’ll have a bruise.
I always do.
The one thing I can say about a nice hot shower is I’m able to let my thoughts run away from me and no one knows about them. They are my secrets, my simple pleasures, and if there is one thing Kenneth can’t take from me, it’s my imagination.
And right now, I’m imagining life without Kenneth. It’s what I usually do when I’m alone.
As I wash my hair with coconut-scented shampoo, Kenneth’s favorite, I picture myself in a red convertible. I don’t care about the make or model, I just want the wind in my hair and loud music blaring. I’m singing at the top of my lungs and I’m enjoying the sun on my face while I drive up the coast of California.
I want to smell the salt in the air and dip my toes in the ocean. I’ve never seen the ocean before. I bet it’s so peaceful. The water rushes over my face as I tilt my head back. It’s hot and comforting. I pretend the warmth is from the sun beaming down on me as I lay out on a beach towel, getting a tan.
My shoulders are hot from the sun, and I’m sinking into a lazy state. The sand sticks to my fingertips and the tops of my feet.
I’m alone.
I usually am in my dreams.
But this time, a hand sneaks out and touches mine. Calloused fingers skim up my arm and tuck my hair behind my ear. I turn my head to see who is there and it’s a man with messy raven-colored hair and eyes that shine amber in the sunlight. His body is kissed by the heat and his abs glisten from the ocean water dripping from his abs.
I snap my eyes open and gasp when Whistler invades my daydream. The one thing that is mine and he has invaded it. How? I can’t think of him. I don’t want to be with a man after I leave Kenneth, which I will, one day.
Just because Whistler seems kind, doesn’t mean anything.
I’ve been fooled by kindness once before. I won’t fall for man’s charms again and Whistler seems full of charms, winks, and smiles.
I bet women line up just to talk to him.
Not that I want to be with him. Like my California dream, that’s all Whistler is. The man is an escape from my harsh reality and it’s better to keep him in the back of my mind. If the time comes where I’m free, I’m running far away, and not even a man as tempting as Whistler will be able to stop me.
I miss the woman I used to be. The one before Kenneth. The one that lived life and wouldn’t take any bullshit. Where did she go? Where is her strength? I think back to all the times I said I’d never be that woman in a bad relationship or the woman that would be too afraid to leave, because how hard could it be? And I want to slap that girl.
If I knew then what I know now, I would have been smarter, kinder, and more sympathetic to other women in the same position.
I was doomed the moment I met Kenneth. My naïve-self believed every word that fell out of his rotten mouth. I’d give anything to pry his lips apart and stuff him full of every lie, hit, kick, and punch he has ever given me.
Maybe then, when he is about to explode, he’ll rethink his next move.
I turn off the shower, snag the towel from the rack and wince when throbbing pain takes over my shoulder. Half of the mirror over the vanity is fogged but I can still see myself. I turn and see a bruise starting to form over my shoulder where I hit it against the bedpost.
How am I going to explain the bruises to my dad and the crew now? I’ve used every damn excuse in the book, and I’m running out of pages to turn.
Tearing my eyes away from my body, I go about my usual routine. I spray my hair with leave-in conditioner, and it smells like coconuts which takes me back to my dream of being on a California beach. I think about seagulls and their chirps and drift off to dreamland while blow-drying my hair. Beach waves crash in the front of my mind as I try to hide the bruises on my face with makeup.
Color corrector is a life saver. Green covers red, orange, and red cover darker tones like purples and blacks—perfect for bruises. It isn’t perfect. It isn’t full coverage, but it’s better than nothing.
I don’t bother with mascara. I’ll just end up crying it away throughout the day from the pain. The counter hits my hips as I lean against it, and I give myself a once over.
Damn it, Charlie. You’re better than this. He doesn’t love you and you sure as hell do not love him. Run. Run as far as you can and never look back.
“I can’t,” I whisper out loud to my own inner thoughts.
I could kill him.
I gasp and run out of the bathroom, covering my hand over my mouth from the shock of the thought. I hate Kenneth so much and every time a violent idea crosses my mind, I tremble. I’m not a confrontation personal. How could I defend myself against Kenneth? My attempt to defend myself would take too long and he’d strike.
Kill him.
The more I think about it, the more appealing it becomes, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in prison for murder.
And the one thing I know for sure… I’d feel bad for him once he was dead. I’d be ridden with guilt. I’d regret it. I’d feel sorry for him even though I shouldn’t, and I hate that quality about myself. I wish I didn’t care about people because then maybe I wouldn’t be here in this situation. I would have gotten rid of Kenneth ages ago.