Page 7 of Dirty, Bruised Martini
I think about you while I lie in bed still shivering from kneeling on the icy ceramic for so long.
Or from fear. Both I guess. Sorry if this is difficult to read. My hands keep shaking despite all the covers piled on top of me. I’m trying to go back to sleep but it’s hard. My mind won’t shut off.
Are you sleeping?
Are you up for your five am run like you used to?
Are you going in early for a meeting?
Are you coming for me today?
Please, please, please come for me today. I don’t think I can do this anymore if I’m pregnant.
I think about you when he calls me names.
He came home early.
He came home early and found me locked in the guest room.
He came home early and told me I’m a worthless, dumb cunt who can’t follow orders and needs to be taught a lesson for thinking I have any control over my life.
I woke up to him flipping me on my stomach and trying to punish me in the worst possible way. But without the lube in the nightstand like he has in his bedroom, he couldn’t penetrate my ass. Not for lack of trying. God he tried so hard and for so long. But I’m just too tight and small to accept his intrusion without help. He finally gave up and fucked my pussy raw while he shoved my face into the mattress. I battled him yet failed as always. So exhausted any more there was nothing I could do except take his abuse and cry. Passing out while he was still inside me.
I woke up bloody, bruised, and chained to the headboard of the bed where he says I’ll always sleep until I die. That’s what he told me, and I’m beginning to think it’s true.
You never call me names and you’re never coming to get me. Are you?
I think about you when he screams at me for being so stupid.
The doctor ignored him as he ranted but I couldn’t. Not when he grabbed my chin and jerked my face toward his. Agony shooting through my mangled arm, making my stomach turn from pain and the concussion the nurse said I probably have. But they can’t be sure since he won’t let them take me to the hospital. I’m getting what I deserved, he told me. My own damn fault he said for running away from him.
It’s his fault!
He should have let me run. He shouldn’t have tried to catch me. Then we wouldn’t have gotten tangled up and flipped over the railing. The entire time we bounced down, slamming into each wooden step, smashing into each stair, crashing into the drywall, all I could hope was the fall would kill me. I would finally die. Since he says you’re dead, I don’t want to live anymore either. I just want it to be over.
But I’m not dead. It’s not over. I don’t think it ever will be.
I think about you all the time.
If you were really dead, wouldn’t my heart know it?
Maybe it’s too numb to know it’s broken.
I think about you when he shoves more pain killers into my mouth.
His nasty hand curling over my lips until I swallow them. Not really necessary as I’ve given up trying to stop him. I used to fight him because I hated not knowing what happened to me while I was unconscious. But now I greedily accept them. I hope he’ll give me too many, and I’ll overdose. How sad is that? At least I’d be away from him. I’d be in heaven with you. I’d be happy.
But I don’t. Every day I wake up, and I’m still here. In hell. Without you.
I think about you when I count.
Nineteen steps from the bed to the bathroom.
Twenty-seven steps from the bathroom to the hallway.
Fifty-three steps to the stairs.
I’m not allowed to go downstairs without him. I’m not allowed to talk to anyone. I’m not allowed to do anything but sit on this bed and write in this journal and wait for him to come in here and rape me.
