Page 11 of Dirty, Bruised Martini
I think about that asshole when I couldn’t find you.
Terror like I’ve never known burned through my body when I ordered every single one of my men to search the house and grounds for you. I ran with an inferno blazing in my chest fucking crazed with the idea that I’d lost you again only to find you in the garage. Contemplating driving away. Killing me that you want to leave. I can’t let you. I’ll never let you. Which makes me no better than that bastard. Except for the fact I love you more than you can seem to understand.
I think about him when I see the disgust on your face.
You don’t have to feel guilty about your revulsion. I understand. I really do. I disgust myself too. I wouldn’t want to touch me either. The scars and bruises remind both of us of what he did. What I did. Making me realize I should have fought harder and longer to keep him from beating me and torturing me and raping me. I thought I tried. While I was there I thought I tried really hard to protect myself. But now, looking back on it, I guess it wasn’t enough.
Dr. Miller said I wasn’t ready for surgery yet. Maybe when I am you’ll give me another chance. You won’t see his brand on me anymore, and you’ll decide I’m worth touching again. You’ll decide I’m worth loving again.
I think about you when I’m supposed to be working.
I’m so fucking distracted. You say I’m impulsive, quick tempered, reckless, dangerous. I’m all those and more when you’re hurting and I can’t do a god damn fucking thing about it. Except wait. You know how horrible I am at waiting. I just want to fix this. Now! I want to comfort you but you won’t even let me hug you. Fucking flinching every time I get too close. It’s not even about fucking you. I just want to hold you, rosy girl. I just need you to know I love you. God, I fucking love you and never thought I’d struggle this damn much to make you believe me.
I think of him when you got angry.
When you read my journal and got so damn angry. Ripping the pages right out of the spine and throwing them across the room and watching them float down to the carpet like confetti. That was MY book! MY BOOK!!! That Jane said I had to write in. That YOU said I should write in. Everyone thinks that damn book is so great. And then you tore it up. Tore it right up and made a huge mess and didn’t even care.
Now I’m writing on this stupid yellow notepad you found and gave me. This isn’t my journal. This isn’t what I want. This isn’t me. None of this is right!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I think about your husband when I scared you.
Your god damn fucking motherfucking bastard husband.
I can’t believe you’re married to that son of a bitch.
I’m losing my shit. I’m not going to lie. I know it was wrong to read your diary without your permission. I broke every single one of Jane’s damn rules. But I heard you crying in the shower. You were in there for over an hour and when you wouldn’t come out after I asked you to, I just freaked the fuck out.
I think I’ve lost my mind to know the truth. Of what he said and did and put you through.
Fuck. I’m sorry Giselle. So fucking sorry.
How the fuck do I make you understand I love you, and I don’t think you’re repulsive? You’re beautiful. And you’re mine. You’re MY rosy girl. I don’t give a damn what any paper says.
I think I hate you.
IKNOWyou hate me.
You keep saying everything is going to be all right. You scream that you’ll fucking get me more therapists, more doctors, more medicine. You yell that you’ve got money and a plane and you’ll make them help me. You shout that you’ll pay whatever it costs, take me wherever we have to go, force whoever you have to for me to get help.
What helps me is that I know where you keep your guns. You should never have told me. You should never have taught me.
How the fuck do I keep from losing my god damn mind when the woman I love wants to die and pleads with me to pull the trigger? How do I keep going when you’re on your knees begging me to kill you because you think that’s what I want? Son of a bitch.
I think of him when you unbuckled the straps on my wrists.
He was harsh. You are gentle.
They are cloth instead of metal. They don’t leave any marks. They don’t make the scars bleed.
Which is good. I don’t like blood. I don’t want to get blood on the bed. Or me. Anymore.
Jane lives here now. She said she likes my new journal. That I made a good choice from the ten boxes of diaries you had delivered. I think so too. I like the daisies. They seem cheerful. Cheerful is what we need.
I think of that motherfucking bastard when you look at me with that vacant expression.
You’re awake now and seem calm. Didn’t even get upset when you realized we restrained you to keep you from hurting yourself when you had your breakdown. I’m not sure if that’s a good sign or not. If I was fucking tied up, everyone responsible would be dead in a heartbeat when I got loose. I guess you don’t have it in you to fight any more.
That’s okay, rosy girl. I’ll fight for you. For fucking us. I’ve got enough fire to burn through any hesitation or doubt or bullshit. Whatever you need or want, no matter how big or small, I’ll fucking deliver. You never have to question my love or commitment again. You never have to worry about anything. This is all for you and about you. I will fix all of it.
