Page 4 of Dance of Devils
No, not “I might” be dancing in Moscow.Manifest, girl.
Iwillbe.
I will?—
“Lemme guess, your phone doesn’t work anymore?”
All I see is black dotted with red. All I feel is the raw thud of pain exploding outward from where the back of James’s hand has smacked my left temple.
My vision blurs, my breath sticking in my throat as I spin off-balance, stumbling and only just catching myself against the wall of a building. I’ve barely begun to turn to face him before James grabs me by the front of my hoodie, hauling me up and snarling down into my face.
“I called you five fucking times the other day.”
There’s no right answer here. If I say “I know”, I’m admitting that I ignored the calls, which will make him even angrier. If I say that Ididn’tknow, then I’m an idiot. This will also piss him off.
I understand, all too well, the way abusers like James twist reality to make everything your fault. They scream at you becauseyoudid or said something wrong. They hit you—even though they “don’t want to”—because youmade them.
I’ve read the books. I’ve listened to the rah-rah-sisterhood podcasts. Iknowall that.
It doesn’t stop me from cowering in fear under my ex-boyfriend’s leering, cruel gaze, feeling like I need to apologize for something.
“I…I’m sorry,” I mumble feebly. “I—James, I’ve just been really busy?—”
“That’s not our deal, Brooklyn.”
Ourdeal.
Something inside me withers and cringes.
James and I dated, broke up, then dated again, then broke up again—it goes on like that for the last year and change.
It’s a broken record, and I know every note by heart now.
I, obviously, have issues—with trust and intimacy, with my self-worth, with abandonment. Daddy issues, mommy issues, you name it, I’ve got them all.
And James knows it.
The script is nauseatingly familiar. He enters orre-entersmy life when I’m spiraling particularly badly. He says all the right things to assuage every “issue” I have and make me lower my defenses—partly because I’m pathetic, and partly because I am justso fucking desperatefor something real. For someone whowill hold me tight and fix it all. Chase away the monsters. Banish the nightmares.
That isn’t James. But when the world’s had you under its boot-heel this long, even a flickering mirage of what you need feels like enough.
And so I decide to let him back into my life. He plays it cool for a while, acts like he gives a shit about me, and for one flickering moment, I wonder if he’s turned a corner, and thatthis time, he’ll really be what I so desperately need him to be.
…And that’s when the nice act drops.
When he lets his temper out. When everything becomes my fault. When I can never say the right thing.
Next come the punches and the kicks. The backhands, the slaps, the shoves.
…The blood and tears when he no longer listens to the word no, and just takes what he wants anyway.
Finally I tell him it’s over, that I hate him and never want to see him again, and manage to get away.
And at some point afterthat, my soul breaks a little more, and my defenses drop, and the whole sad, pathetic, abusive dance starts again.
“I wanted you to come over the other night,” he growls.
I swallow. “James, look, we talked about that. I don’t think we should?—”
