Breaking the Cycle

by Zane

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “I love him, Portia.” We let silence take over for a beat. She just listened. Waited patiently. “I’m so confused. I don’t think I can live without him. We have our fights. But he loves me.”

  “Persia, sweetheart,” she said, rubbing my face. “He doesn’t love you. No man who loves you hurts you the way he does. And beating on someone who you supposedly care about is not love—it’s abuse. You don’t deserve that. No woman does.”

  “But I can’t leave him,” I said, wiping my face with the sleeve of my shirt. “Not now. I don’t want to raise a baby by myself.”

  “You can leave him,” she said, reassuringly. “You can pack up and leave with us next week. And you won’t be raising your baby by yourself. I’ll help you.”

  “But I’m carrying his child. I can’t keep it from him. He has to know.”

  “Then tell him.”

  “He won’t let me leave him.”

  “What do you mean, he won’t let you leave him? If you want to leave, there’s nothing he can do to stop you.”

  I sighed. “Portia, you don’t understand—”

  “No,” she snapped, cutting me off. “I do understand. He’s a damn nut. And that’s all there is to it. I understand that he has you living in fear, walking on eggshells. Not knowing when the next bomb is going to go off. I understand all too well. But you understand something. I love you. And I know I can’t tell you how to live your life. But it’s not about you anymore. You have a child inside of you. What good is it going to be if you stay with a man who beats on you whenever he feels like it?

  “If that’s the life you want. Then fine. But no child deserves to be witness to that. You want to stay with him, then you stay. But what happens when he kills you, Persia, huh? What happens when your unborn child doesn’t have a mother because his father beat her to death? Please tell me, Persia. What happens then?”

  Her words slapped me, forcing me to take a sad look at my reality. I burst into tears. “I can’t leave him, Portia. He’s really trying. We haven’t fought in months.”

  She rolled her eyes up in her head. “So now I guess you think he deserves a medal. Wake the fuck up, Persia. He had no damn business putting his hands on you in the first place. If you’re afraid of leaving him, then sign a damn restraining order against him.”

  I shook my head. I heard everything she said. But I couldn’t respond. My emotions were stuck in my throat. I coughed up a ball of pain, sobbing. I cried until my chest hurt. The air around me was thinning. I was feeling lightheaded. “I can’t live without him. I need him.”

  My sister stared at me with sadness in her eyes. Her tone softened. “You don’t need him or any other man. I’m telling you, Persia, you can do it. Look at me. I’ve done it.”

  I stared into my sister’s almond-shaped eyes, lovingly admiring her beauty and strength. And wished I could have been more like her. Independent. Focused. Self-defined. She refused to settle for anything less than what she demanded. And she refused to let a man define who she was as a woman. Period. She had caught her husband with another woman and walked out on him after ten years of marriage and two small children, never looking back. And was happy. I wanted to feel what she felt.

  We talked for another hour or so before I headed home. I didn’t know what I was going to do, or how I was going to do it. But one thing was for sure: I had to do something, soon. I saw Ty’s car in the driveway, glanced down at my watch. It was 9:30 p.m. I had been gone for over six hours and had forgotten to call home. Anxiety beat in the pit of my stomach. The house was pitch dark. I peeled myself out of the car and made my way to the door, hoping he was asleep. I stuck the key in the door, turning the knob, then walking in. My heart was heavy. I flipped on the light.

  “Where the fuck you been?” he snapped, jumping up out of the chair. He lunged at me. I backed away.

  “I-I—”

  “I’ve been fucking calling you all damn day.” He grabbed me by the arm. “Where the fuck were you?”

  “Ow, Ty. You’re hurting me,” I said, wincing. “I was with Portia.”

  “All damn day?” he barked, glaring at me. Twisting my arm.

  “Owww. Yes.”

  “Then why didn’t you answer you cell?”

  “Because I forgot to bring it with me.”

  “Bullshit!” he snapped, slapping me. “I wanna know who the fuck you out there whoring with.” I held the side of my face in my hand.

  “No one,” I said, holding back tears.

  Everything my sister said pounded through my head. No matter what I said, or tried to do, Ty would never change. He would continue to treat me like shit, as long as I let him. I yanked my arm from his grasp.

  “I’m tired of you putting your hands on me, Ty. I’m tired of you accusing me of doing things I’m not. I’m tired of you mistreating me. And I’m sick of you talking to me any kind of way. I’m leaving you.”

  The veins in his neck and forehead expanded. His eyes dilated. I held my breath. And stood my ground. I was through. I tried to open the door to get to my car before he hit me again. But he caught me, swinging me around, then punching me in the face.

  I screamed. Yelled for help at the top of my lungs. “Please, Ty. Stop! Help me.” He hit me again. Blood splattered from my lip.

  “You wanna talk slick, Bitch. You wanna get brand new, talking ’bout you leaving me. Didn’t I tell you I’d kill your ass before I let you go?”

  His fist felt like steel pipes hitting against my flesh. My vision blurred. He wrapped his hands around my throat, choking me. I gasped for air, felt around for something to grab, anything to get him off me. I felt something. I reached for it, fighting for my life. It was a crystal ashtray. I grabbed hold of it and smashed him in the face with it. He let go of me. I hit him again, then ran out the house, yelling for help. He ran after me. But I was already at the neighbor’s door, banging. Kicking. Screaming. No one answered. He yanked me by the back of my hair, punching me.

  “Please, Ty, stop! I’m pregnant. You’re going to make me lose my baby!”

  He just blocked everything out and continued to beat me, slapping and punching me. All my sister said was going to come to pass. I would never live to see the birth of my child. He was going to kill me, and there was no one around to save me. Everything began to fade in and out. In the distance, I thought I heard the faint sounds of sirens. A burst of colors swirled through my mind. My life was about to be taken from me, along with everything else. What did I do to deserve this? Nothing. I was slipping. The only thing I did was love a man who didn’t love me. I closed my eyes, preparing to embrace death.

  “Stop! Police!” is the last thing I heard before the world around me darkened.

  It’s been well over a year since that whole ordeal. And I’m happy to say that I’m safe and sound in Atlanta, and thankful that I’m here today to share my story. I’m grateful the neighbors called the police. Had they not gotten there when they did, not only would Ty have taken my life, he would have taken the life of my beautiful son. Yes, I had a healthy baby boy, Parrish Arlington Swanson. He is my pride and joy.

  Although my physical wounds have healed, the scars are still there as a constant reminder of what Ty put me through. But the one good thing, I will never have to worry about him hurting me again. He has ten years behind bars to sit and think about his abusive behavior. And hopefully, during that time, he’ll get some help for his anger. And self-hatred. I loved him the best I knew how, but it wasn’t enough. I needed to love me first. And I do now.

  Ty knows about my son. But he’ll never have an opportunity to know him as his father. I petitioned the courts to have his parental rights terminated, and won. I know it will take me a while to get past what I went through with him. With the help of my therapist, I’m sorting through my baggage, peeling back my past one layer at a time. And I’m stronger than I ever imagined. I still have a long way to go. A part of me misses him. How could I not when every time I look into my son’s face I see spl
ashes of him? But I’m okay with it. My son may have Ty’s genes, but he will not be anything like him. I will make sure of that. He will know how to treat a woman. Love a woman. Respect a woman. He will know never to raise his hand to any woman. Period.

  You know. Despite everything, I have forgiven Ty. And I wish for him to find the peace that I have found. I can’t control how another person thinks, acts, or feels, but I can surely control how I respond to it. From this day forward, I control whom I let in my life and to what degree. And the one thing I’m sure of, no man will ever again beat me with his hands or his words. I will not allow another human being to have control over me again. No man will ever again define or re-define me as a woman.

  Yes, I lived through it, for whatever reasons. But I have made a conscious choice to move past my circumstance of tragedy. And now I am free to love me. Free to just be.

  And it’s a beautiful feeling. For the first time in my life, I finally realize that I do not have to ever be a victim of anything, because victory begins with me.

  Dywane D. Birch, a graduate of Norfolk State University and Hunter College, is the author of Shattered Souls and From My Soul to Yours. He has a master’s degree in psychology and is a clinically certified forensic counselor. He lives in New Jersey where he continues to work with incarcerated young adults while working on his third novel.

  THE STRANGER

  TRACY PRICE-THOMPSON

  His eyes, hooded and sleeted with rage, slithered around the room in search of prey. Beyond the doorway, Paris stood terrified, tiny chill bumps rippling like Braille on her thin arms. An angry pulse marched up and down William’s right temple as he stormed into the kitchen, blotting out the light and forcing the air from the room. Bowing her head, Paris snagged her lip between her teeth as he stabbed two thick fingers into the steaming mug of liquid sitting on the table before them.

  “Tea ain’t hot.”

  She snatched the oversized cup, ignoring the scalding liquid that sloshed over her fingers and spilled onto the blue and white speckled tablecloth that was embroidered with tiny angels, harps in hand. Wincing under his glare, Paris placed the mug into the microwave and turned the dial up high. She grabbed a dishrag from a nearby drawer and made busy wiping at the spill as William yanked his high-backed chair away from the head of the table and plopped himself down.

  “What in the fuck is this?” He stared at the yellow fluff of his breakfast. “You know goddamn well I can’t stand no eggs runnin’ all over my plate.”

  Paris moved automatically, her hourglass figure clad in a thin robe, her long brown hair brushing her shoulders. She took the plate from the table and slid it into the microwave beside the bubbling tea, turning the timer up high again and awaiting his next command.

  Wasn’t shit wrong with the eggs or the tea, she reassured herself. William was just mad because his horse had come in last again, giving him reason to find fault in anything she did. Especially since what she was going to do today didn’t involve him. Thank God he’d be leaving soon on a two-week haul. The last time he’d stayed gone that long he’d brought home a kilo of coke, ten gold bangles, and a bad case of the clap. She turned off the microwave, set his breakfast on the table and waited.

  “Yum,” William said, but his eyes weren’t on his plate. They had crawled over her cleavage and were dropping lower. Paris glanced down and saw that her robe had slipped open revealing her shapely thighs and sister-girl hips. Her fingers fumbled as she redid her buttons, praying they would stay. But it was too late. William was looking at her “that way” again and she swallowed hard, fighting the urge to gag.

  He’d already taken her. Taken her roughly and in several different positions; each one more painful and humiliating than the last. Twice around midnight, and then again as she tried to slip out of bed at 6 a.m. Sore between the legs and repulsed by the memory, she tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear and reached for the toaster just as funnels of dark smoke began to shoot from its mouth.

  “Dizzy bitch! What in the hell is wrong with you?” William pushed away from the table and stood up. He cast an angry shadow over her. “Can’t a working man get a decent meal in his own goddamned house?”

  Expecting a blow, Paris ducked and cringed, then grabbed at the charred slices of toast, juggling the hot bread as it seared her fingers. Bitch, Slut, Parrot, Ho. Born in Mississippi and named for the most beautiful city in the world, it was a shame she’d never made it any further than this asshole and the Bronx.

  “Dumb ass!” William cursed, then seized the back of her neck and bent her over, shoving her down until her cheek was pressed to the countertop. Paris didn’t resist. The jagged scar near the base of her right ear began to tingle and, instinctively, her eyes flew to the wooden knife rack sitting near the window. It was empty. All the knives were under the sink in a shoebox. Taped closed and double wrapped in plastic bags.

  And then his hands were on her, lifting her robe and rubbing the thick mounds of her ass. Paris closed her eyes and prayed. Not again. Please, not again. Outside the kitchen window sheets of rain pounded the pavement as he spread her cheeks and entered her, ramming her so hard she slid forward on the counter and felt the toaster’s heat on her face.

  Just hold on, Paris pleaded with herself as he brutalized her from behind. William liked it raw. She was so torn and sore down there until, no matter where he chose to enter her, it all hurt the same. He moaned in her ear, clutching her hips as he moved in and out of her anus without lubrication. Paris bit her lip as her breasts brushed rhythmically against the countertop. This would make what, three, no, four times? In less than eight hours? How much more could he have in him?

  “Turn around,” William commanded, withdrawing from her abruptly.

  Paris stood shakily. She could smell herself as she turned to face her husband. His erect dick rose from his fly, its shaft wet and angry. William sat down in his chair.

  “C’mere.”

  Hell no, Paris thought, even as she moved toward him. Hell fucking no. He must be crazy. I ain’t doing that no more. Fuck him. I ain’t doing that shit. But today was Tuesday, and that meant William could mess everything up. Sometimes you just had to do what you had to do.

  Seconds later her nose was buried in his pubic hair as she sucked and licked him with long, broad strokes. The stench coming off of him was overpowering and Paris choked as her head bobbed up and down in his lap, his fingers yanking at her hair as he fucked up into her mouth.

  “Damn, Girl,” William panted, ready to burst. “You ain’t… worth much,” he managed, moaning between words, “but you can suck a… mean dick!”

  Paris wanted to bite him. Just clench her jaws and bite his foul dick off and take whatever punishment came. Instead she squeezed around the base of it and sucked hard enough to collapse her cheeks as his seed spurted from him and filled her mouth. She braced herself. You can do it, Paris, she told herself, panic rising and tears stinging her eyes. You can do it. This was the worst part but she had to fake it or his fists would be flying around her head, blackening her eyes and cracking her jaw. Clenching her hands, she braced herself and swallowed. Deep long gulps, pretending hard to like it.

  “Yeah.” William sighed above her. “Do that shit, Parrot girl. Get it all. You’re the best.”

  Sex was only a diversion.

  He used his dick to degrade her. He used it as a prelude to the beatings.

  William held the cold slices of charred toast in his hands. “Make me some more toast.”

  “There isn’t any more. We’re all out of bread.”

  “There isn’t any more,” he mimicked. “We’re all out of bread. Bitch still covered in Mississippi mud and trying to sound all proper. Like some damn white girl.”

  Paris picked up the bread and began scraping the black away with the back of a teaspoon. She fingered the scar near her ear. Even a butter knife could be deadly in William’s hands.

  “Hur’ up, Stupid,” he rasped, then leaned forward and shoveled the ha
lf-cold eggs into his mouth. Paris placed the scraped slices on a napkin, then offered them meekly.

  “Goddammit!” William flicked his wrist, knocking the toast from her hands. “What you tryin’ to do? Poison me? You make me sick! Don’t know your titties from your toenails and can’t cook worth a damn!”

  It’s Tuesday, Paris thought, and squatted down to scoop up the scorched slices of bread. It’s Tuesday. “I’m sorry, William. I’m—”

  “You goddamn right, you sorry! If your trifling ass wasn’t all the time downstairs finger-painting like some idiot, you could make sure there was food in the house! Listen here.” William breathed. “When I get back tonight, I wants something decent to eat, so you best get your ass out there and make some groceries ’cause tonight I wants you to call my mama and invite her and Ralphie and Terri over for dinner. I wants you,” he went on, “to fix us a few steaks, some taters, and one of them big ole tossed salads Terri always likes. And then I wants you to bake me and my mama a German chocolate cake.”

  Forgetting her fear, Paris stood. “William,” her words came out in a hot rush. “Today is Tuesday. My paintings are going on sale at Jerel’s gallery at noon and I’ll be gone all day. How about we take Mama and them out to dinner tomorrow night, huh? We could go to that rib place down on Sutter that Ralphie likes so much. Terri could get her a salad there, too—”

  William’s fist hit the counter so hard the dishes rattled in the drain. “I didn’t say shit about tomorrow, so what fuckin’ part of tonight didn’t you understand?” He moved in on her. “Know what, Parrot? Make that two chocolate cakes and some nana puddin’, too.”

  What? Paris wanted to scream. Fuck you and your mama! Instead she scampered out of the kitchen without another word. Anything she said at this point would only send him soaring into pisstivity, and that was exactly what William was looking for.

  Any excuse to kick her ass.

  As she tucked her hair under a clear plastic cap and stepped into the shower, Paris bit down on the insides of her cheeks until it hurt. William ought to bake his own mama a damn cake. She lathered her body and carefully washed her privates with a soft loofah sponge, wincing as the soap swirled between her legs.