by Amanda Grace
Unless he does something crazy like break the window. Would he do that? Is he that angry? Or maybe he’s worried. Maybe he knows he went too far this time.
I listen to his footsteps approach, and with each step my breathing gets more erratic.
I am afraid of him.
I am truly afraid.
May 18
Eight months, eighteen days
I can’t figure out what set him off.
He broke two dishes while trying to wash them. That was the start. And now he rakes his hands across the wall and knocks all the pictures off, and when I go to pick them up, he turns on me.
“Get out,” he says. He spits the words at me. “I’m so sick of looking at you.”
I don’t know where he expects me to go. If I walk through the front door of my mom’s house tonight, she’ll take one look at my red eyes and know he caused it again, and that will make things even harder. She’ll want to know everything. And I can’t explain any of this. Not even if I had all day. No one will understand this.
I crouch on the ground and pick up shards of glass, ignoring the malice in his voice. “Just let me pick this up. You’re not even wearing shoes.”
But he ignores me and steps into the glass and pushes me over with his leg, and I can’t catch my balance before I fall and knock my head into the wall and a flash of pain blinds me.
“I don’t want you to see me like this today. Just get out,” he says again.
I breathe in and out slowly, stalling for time. “Connor, just go sit down, okay? Just go play your guitar or—”
“Fuck that stupid guitar!”
I swallow and fight the urge to look up at him. His face is so ugly when he’s this angry. I don’t like to see it. It haunts me, like a ghost that hangs around even when his anger is gone. I can see it behind his eyes, even when he smiles. It reminds me that there will always be more of this, that it will happen again and again and again until I can figure out how to be everything he needs me to be.
I swallow hard and get my feet back under me and stand up, doing it slowly, like I don’t know what I’ll find once I’m on my feet again.
And he watches me, calculating, and I know he will have something to say when I get to him.
But he surprises me. He doesn’t say anything. He just pushes me backward until I’m against the wall and he towers over me. The glass still litters the floor around us.
His face is so close that his nose brushes mine. “Why the fuck do you just sit around like this? Why the fuck do you put yourself in my way?”
I swallow, slowly, waiting. I never speak when he’s like this. The words belong to him.
“Are you that fucking stupid? Do you want me to hit you?”
My breath comes in shallow, quick bursts through my mouth, because my nose is already stuffed from the tears. I hate this so much. If he’s going to do it, I wish he would just do it.
He is so ugly right now. His eyes are empty when he’s like this. His anger consumes him, and Connor is gone. He is a product of his childhood.
It is what it is, and I know I have to wait for him to come back to me.
And I know that when the anger is gone, and he’s back, he will cry for what he’s done to me. He’ll mean every word he says, every apology. But it won’t stop it from happening again.
I don’t know what to do anymore. I think I might actually have to get away from him for anything to get better. I think about it, for tiny little moments, until that pain sears through my chest and I realize I can’t do it. I realize I love him too much, and the mere thought of leaving makes my heart throb a dull ache.
The house is so still. So frozen, as he stares at me. Long moments pass and I just keep waiting. Waiting for the moment chaos breaks loose. It will happen. It always happens.
And yet he just stares at me, that ugly look in his eyes, and something inside me snaps and I shove him. Hard. He has no time to react. He just topples over and lands in the glass, and a piece slices his palm.
I’m so stunned by my own actions I don’t move. I don’t know how I could have done that. I don’t know how I just let loose and did that after all these months of just taking it. I stand there, eyes wide, and fear snakes its way up me and coils in my stomach and throat.
I should not have done that.
He’s up like lightning and he’s in my face again. I retreat, but only succeed in smacking my head against the wall yet again. It’s pounding now, a steady beat that keeps up with my racing heart.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says, as if he can read my thoughts. His voice is so calm. So even. So murderous. It’s worse than the moments he is uncontrollable.
Because he’s scheming, calculating his next move.
And then he turns away from me, and it unleashes.
The half-eaten dinner goes first, flying across the room and splattering like red paint on the wall. A dining room chair shoots past me, inches from my head.
His palm is still bleeding from the glass. It drips on the carpet, seeps in. “Why can’t you just fucking hate me ?”
He doesn’t expect an answer. He’s tearing apart his place. He grabs a remote and hurls it across the room, into a mirror, and it splinters into a web of cracks.
And all I can think is seven years bad luck. As if that matters, as if we have any luck at all.
“You’re too good for this! You’re too good for all of this!”
He picks up a lamp and it flies across the room, the cord trailing after.
And then he’s done with it as quickly as he snapped into it. He slides to the ground, silent. There are no tears, no shouts, nothing. He’s simply empty.
I walk through the carnage and drop to the ground, then lie down and rest my head in his lap. He doesn’t seem to see me. His eyes are vacant. He just strokes my hair with one hand, and I close my eyes and try to disappear.
We are traveling down a path with no happy ending, and it’s too late to turn around.
May 14
Eight months, fourteen days
I’m standing in line at the coffee shop in town, waiting on my order, when Abby walks in. Just seeing her makes my stomach hurt. Why can’t this be any other day? I wish I’d showered and dressed in something bright and happy, that she’d see me laughing with Connor.
But it’s just me. And I’m exhausted after a night of talking Connor down off the edge yet again. I don’t even like coffee, but I’m buying it because I need the caffeine to get through finals.
And I have nothing to do but wait here as she walks up, a tentative smile on her face. She stands in front of me, looking at me, for too long.
“How are you?” she finally says.
She knows how I am. She can see it. Does she want me to say it out loud? Does she want me to admit I’m tired and haunted and just weary of all this?
“Good,” I say.
It’s a lie and she knows it, but she just lets it hang there.
“That’s good.”
I want to hug her. I want to leave Starbucks with her and get in her car and go wherever she’s going and pretend her life is mine. I could live like her. I know I could. A world where your parents sit at the dinner table and ask you how your day was. A world where they tuck you in at night and you roll your eyes and act annoyed, but you secretly love it.
“My mom wants to know why you’re never over anymore.”
My coffee is sitting in front of me now. I should just walk away. I don’t have to answer her.
“What did you tell her?”
“That you hate me,” she says. Her voice is even. Like saying those words is no effort at all.
“I don’t hate you.” My voice is barely above a whisper as I say it, as I look at her to see if that really is what she thinks. I’m the one who abandoned her, not the other way around. I’m the one who ignored her calls and barely nodded at her in the hallways at school. It was me. She did nothing to deserve hate.
She doesn’t answer. She just picks at her nail
s and we stand in silence, two old friends with nothing to say to one another.
“And Connor? How’s he?”
She knows how he is. She knows who he is, and that is enough.
“Fine.”
Fine. Everything is fine. She knows this, too, is a lie. I don’t know why I insist on saying it.
She starts to leave.
“I mean—”
I don’t know what I mean. I don’t know why I stopped her.
She turns back to me and looks me in the eye for the first time.
I know she sees who I am now. I know she pities me. The silence hangs between us like a weight, and neither of us has to say anything to know what has gone unspoken.
And then she hugs me. It lasts at least five seconds longer than necessary and I close my eyes and lose myself in it, a hug more secure than anything I’ve felt in months.
And then without looking at me again, she walks away.
And I know that she’s a real friend. And I wish I could have her back again.
May 7
Eight months, Seven days
I think I might be pregnant. I don’t know how it happened. I don’t know what to do or say. All day long, every time my stomach twinges, I think it might be cramps and I rush to the bathroom, but it’s not.
We were so careful.
I know he cannot handle this. I know I need to find out first, before I say anything. He has too much on his plate. He has too much to deal with. I can’t add this to it.
All day at school, I’ve been distracted. I keep counting the days on my fingers, in my notebooks, but every time, it’s the same. I am two days late.
This can’t happen. This will ruin it all. It will be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Some people can handle things like this. We can’t. Not now.
PE is the worst. I was supposed to be playing basketball, but after the third time I got hit with the ball, I feigned sick and left.
It’s not a lie. I do feel sick. I don’t know if I’m sick because I’m really pregnant or I’m sick because I’m so scared, but either way, I feel weak and vaguely nauseous. I need to lie down. In a dark hole where no one will find me ever again.
I can’t have a baby. Not now. Not in this world. Things have to be fixed first. Connor and I have to figure out how to take care of ourselves first. He has to get better at controlling his anger and be happy, and we have so many things to fix.
I leave before sixth period. I don’t even care that a guard sees me pull out of the gravel lot, rocks flying behind my little car. I know he wrote down my plate. I know I will get detention for this. It seems silly, detention. Childish. Do they really think I would care?
I drive to Aberdeen, the next town over where no one will recognize me, and find a drug store. I’m ashamed of what I’m doing. I know I’m eighteen. It could be worse. But this is so wrong.
I buy three tests, just to be safe. I don’t want to have to come back if one doesn’t work right. I don’t want to stand at the register, praying the clerk uses a bag you can’t see through. I hate every second of it.
My stomach is twisting and turning so hard it’s painful.
This can’t happen. It will ruin everything. It will ruin me, break Connor, and spite my mother. She’ll hate me for sure now.
I take the tests to McDonald’s and park in the lot, staring at those stupid golden arches that seem too bright and perky, that seem to be mocking me.
I’m frozen. If I go inside and take this test and it says positive, it will mean so many things. Things I can’t handle. It will mean my life is really over. It will mean I can never be the person I used to be. I can never return to who I once was.
And I will have to tell him and I don’t think I can do that. I don’t think I can put that on his shoulders when they already sink with the weight of the world he carries. I don’t think I can look him in the eyes and watch the disappointment and despair I’m sure will be there. A baby doesn’t deserve a reaction like that. A reaction like I’m feeling right now—the utter dread and fear. A baby is supposed to be a happy thing, not a death knell.
An hour passes before I finally stuff all three boxes into my purse. If I don’t do this now, I never will. I have to know. Not knowing is killing me.
I walk across the tile floor as if it’s the plank, and these tests are my scarlet letter for all to see.
The bathroom is empty. I take the big handicap stall and hang my purse on the door. I set a box on the top of the paper dispenser, my hand a little shaky, and then I slide my jeans down and sit down on the toilet.
And then I see it … and then I know.
I’m not pregnant.
The relief I feel is so swift and intense I collapse and bury my face in my arms, and rest on my knees and sob.
All alone, in the McDonald’s bathroom.
April 30
Eight Months
For two days, I skipped school. Two days I avoided everything. I stayed in bed almost all day, the curtains drawn, the covers pulled up to my chin.
But I know I have to go back to class before I miss too much. Before they call my mom.
I bring a stool into the tiny bathroom in his apartment and sit on it under the harsh light, and stare at the angry blue bruise under my eye.
Gingerly, I touch the darkest spot and wince. It’s still tender even though it’s been a few days. It’s turning a grotesque shade of yellow around the edges.
I dig through a bag of makeup, trying to find the best concealer. I choose the weird green goop and pat it under my eye, then follow it up with foundation and powder. I just need to cover it up so no one will see it. I’ll keep my head down and get through class. The bruise will fade and no one will ever know it was there.
I look up after I dab another layer of powder under my eye.
It’s not an improvement. I look like I’ve spackled pancake batter on my face.
I take a washcloth and wipe it off, but the pressure makes my whole face throb.
I look down at the linoleum for a moment and take a few deep breaths to will away the emotions welling up in my chest. This is stupid. I need to just cover it up and get to school.
I can do this.
I grip the sink and stare straight back at my reflection.
And I don’t recognize myself.
Before I can stop it, my lip starts quivering. A tiny bit at first, then it’s shaking and I have to bite it. My vision shimmers, and then I see the big tears brim and roll down my cheeks, dripping off my chin, one after another.
The girl staring back at me is not me.
It is someone else.
It is not me.
Her eyes turn red as I watch her in the mirror. Her sparkling blue eyes look so hollow.
She’s like the zombie version of me. The undead version.
There is no way that is me.
I close my eyes because I can’t look at her anymore.
School can wait. I can make up another day. It’s Friday, anyway. By Monday the bruise will be gone and no one will have to know about it.
I need to go back to bed, where the world doesn’t exist.
I swipe my hand across the counter and the makeup crashes to the floor, and then I walk out the door and switch off those ugly bright lights.
I’m going back to bed. And when I wake up maybe that ugly girl will be gone.
April 27
Seven Months, twenty-eight days
I should have known when he said, “You’re so lucky I don’t hit girls,” that one day he would.
And he did. He just hit me. I can’t seem to process it. I’m too shocked to move, as the same image replays over and over in my mind. The way his knuckles smashed into my cheek, the loud crack when skin met skin.
Connor wouldn’t do that to me. He wouldn’t turn on me like that. He hits things, not people. He told me that himself, that first month we were together, when I saw all those scars on his knuckles.
He loves me as much as I love him. And he would never
hurt me like this.
But I know by the look on his face that he’s more stunned than I am, and that it has really, truly happened.
He hit me.
I just keep thinking it, over and over, trying to wrap my head around it. I just keep staring at him, my face stinging so hard it burns. This didn’t happen. He doesn’t even look angry anymore. It couldn’t have happened.
I sink to the ground but he catches me, picks me up before I can slide all the way to the floor. He carries me to the couch and sets me down as if I’m glass, as if I might break.
He doesn’t see that I’m already broken.
Tears flow down his cheeks and slide off his jaw. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He keeps repeating it.
He’s so far away. I’m so deep inside myself that I can’t respond, can’t talk.
He’s done it. He’s hit me.
He touches the spot on my cheek with the backside of his fingers. I’m sure it is red. It is swelling; I can feel it grow, heat spreading across my face. My eye feels heavy, like it’s trying to close all on its own.
“Oh, God, Ann, I’m sorry,” he keeps saying. Over and over. It is his mantra. He is sorry.
He’s kissing my face and my hands and crying.
“I swear to you I didn’t mean to. I don’t know why I did that. I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.”
I know he is. I know he hadn’t wanted to do that.
Just like I knew he would. It was inside him. I know that. I knew that it would come out.
And even though I thought I was ready, I wasn’t.
What do you do when the one person you want comfort from the most is the one who caused your pain? How can I want so desperately for him to wrap me up in his arms but also want so much for him to leave me alone?
“Please,” I whisper, though I have nothing else to say. “Please.”
I don’t know what I’m asking of him. I don’t know what I want right now, except to rewind the last ten minutes and erase it all.
It didn’t happen.