Page 8 of Dirty, Bruised Martini
I walk ninety-nine steps over and over while I wait for him to rape me again.
I think about you when I stumble and fall again, scraping my hands and knees.
I’m so dizzy from these pills I can barely walk. Tripping over the furniture he keeps moving around. Why does he do that? You never did that. Your house was nice and orderly. Everything stayed where it was supposed to. You always stayed where you were supposed to. He sneaks up on me, laughing from me collapsed on the floor. Enjoying me sprawled out and too groggy to stop him from doing whatever the hell he wants to me.
I think about you when I saw you.
So far away in the blurry hallway. He said you were dead but I saw you. I reached for you but you turned away.
I heard you! I heard you too! I heard you talking to him!
Your shoes were running on the stairs. Running and running so loud but never here!!!!!!
I called for you and you didn’t come. Why didn’t you come? Why are you here if you don’t want me anymore??????????
I don’t think you love me anymore.
I think about you when I’m alone and scared.
He’s locked me in the bedroom. He’s stopped giving me the pills, and now I’m awake all the time. Days it feels like. But I’m not sure. I don’t know what’s going on, and I’m frightened. He’s been yelling. A lot. Not at me this time. But at the guards. He’s sent away his cousins. I don’t know why.
I can hear men yelling. The floor is shaking under my feet from people running. I think I smell smoke.
I’ve been screaming and beating on the door. I tried to break the window but it only cracked. Instead, busting the chair I could barely lift to fling against the glass.
What do I do?
No one’s come for me. I think he’s forgotten about me. I think he’s left me here to die.
I thought that’s what I wanted too. To die and be with you. But now I’m terrified. I don’t want to die alone. Without telling my mom good-bye or knowing the truth about you or having him be the last person to ever touch me.
If you are alive and somehow find this book, please know I love you.
I really wanted you to be my husband.
I really wanted to be your wife.
I really wanted to be with you forever.
I’m really sorry for everything.
Please Kane don’t let me die.
I think about him when I opened this book.
Jane said I should start another journal. A new outlook—a fresh start—that she said would be therapeutic. Easier I guess to write down my thoughts and feelings. Until maybe I’m ready to say them out loud. To her. To you. To myself.
But I feel funny about it. I never kept a diary before. Writing in one when I was with him helped keep me sane. Now, with you, I don’t know. I don’t think I’m crazy, but you must think I am since you’re making me see her. Since you’re worried about me. Since you’re not acting like yourself either.
Maybe Iama little bit crazy. Because I really want to yell and scream and curse him straight to hell. Instead, we’re all very calm and polite and rational. Jane, you, me. Even though I’m pretending because that’s what both of you seem to expect. For three days now since you found me and brought me home. We’re feigning as if I’m fine. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. But I don’t think that’s true. I don’t think any of this is fine at all. I want it to be though. I really, really, really, want everything to be fine. So I’ll write in this book like you both ask and hope it will be.
I think about you, rosy girl, as I write this.
I’m not even sure what the hell I’m doing. But Jane said I need to keep a journal too. For me to heal. Which is totally unnecessary and damn stupid. I’m fine. I don’t have the time or inclination to waste on emotional bullshit.
She’s smart though. Well worth every grand I’m paying her. Asking me if that wasn’t a bit hypocritical since we both told you that you need to keep your diary going. Fuck yes I’m a hypocrite, and I don’t give a damn if she or anyone thinks so. I’m the boss.
The god damn motherfucking boss.
