It’s been three years since I first met the love of my life. When he walked up to me, I was quick to brush him off. He was sweet, but too sweet for me. I never like the sweet guys because I felt they were hiding something. At the time, he convinced me that he was different. Now I know that he just knew how to paint his mask a little better than the others.
He spoiled me rotten. He listened to me when I had a bad day at work and he would always take my side when I felt wronged. He would bring me my favorite gummy bears when I had my period and he’d massage my feet whenever I wore heels. One day out of the month he would go out and hang with the boys. I never questioned it because he was good to me and he deserved a night out.
But one night he came back from a night out with the boys and he wasn’t the same. There was no warmth in his touch. His words were clipped and he had no patience with me. I knew he had a bad day and I just wanted him to talk with me about it. His annoyed demeanor just ended up making me frustrated. Now I don’t know what triggered him this time. It could have been the way the way I stood with my hands on my hips or the ay I rolled my eyes in the direction of the front door. It could have been the high pitched way I ended my question or the way I blocked him path from walking further into my bedroom. But the one thing I do know is that the hit came quick and he made complete contact with his target.
Hollywood never really emphasizes the pain behind being beaten. Most movies make bullet wounds and knife scrapes look like bee stings. The one thing I can attest to on that day is that being slapped is not like being stung by a bee. Being repeatedly beaten to the point where you wish you would just blackout, is not something you can just get up and walk away from. Each fist feels like the first one. You pray for it to stop. Hoping he’ll get tired. Praying he’ll snap out of the state he’s in. With this man standing over you, all you can think is, how did I get here?
When he’s done, the cold is gone from his eyes. At this point you get one of two things. Either the sweet man filled with regret or the monster filled with self righteousness as he emphasizes why you deserved this punishment. Today, I get the sweet man. He carries me to the bathroom and places me on the closed lid of the toilet. Today, he chooses to clean the wounds he’s inflicted. Today, he will try to heal my wounds with his love.
As we lay in bed tonight, I look over at his sleeping figure. His knuckles are bruised from repeated use. His brows furrow slightly as he tries to fall into a deeper sleep to escape the nightmare that he’s become. Every third breath hitches slightly as he falls deeper and deeper. A tear escapes my left swollen eye because I love this man. I love this monster. I slowly lift myself up from the bed. I try to avert my eyes from the tall mirror across the room, but that poor, broken creature won’t be ignored. I love this man. I love this monster. I reach beneath my pillow and pull the steel, sharp knife from its cove. I glide my sock covered feet across the carpet to stand next to his resting form. I look up to see the shattered figure in the mirror. She looks back at me. Her shoulders slowly straighten and the look in her eyes transform from fear into determination. I lean over him as I whisper my love with all the emotion that is left in me. Before he can shake the remnants of sleep I quickly carve away the mask of the man I love. After the echoes of his screams finish ringing in my ears, I stand covered in his warmth one last time as I look down at the monster in his true form. I love this man…but I love me more.
D'Miria Collins 