Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Knowing the fallout my family will face can no longer matter. Things in my life changed substantially four months ago, and it has taken me that long to pull the trigger on what I knew I should have done years ago.
Fear and I are great friends now, and it swims inside every crevice of my body, my hands shaking as I try to pack my most important things in a rush.
It mixes with unfamiliar disappointment.
The one time I ask for genuine help, the one time I need it the most, I'm left alone.
Calling the women's shelter was my only choice since asking anyone in my life would get back to Graham.
They swore someone would be here this morning to help me. It was my only window of escape, and yet no one has knocked on the door in the last half hour since Graham left for the business trip that would keep him away for the next three days.
I don't know how to face this alone, but I know I have no other choice.
I zip my second suitcase and roll it to the living room beside the first one. I was told to pack light, to only take essentials, and I think I've managed that.
I've taken nothing sentimental. Every other belonging here is attached to a life I'm running from. I want no memories of it, nothing to draw me back in.
I look around the room, jerking when a knock bangs against the front door, and instantly, I feel a sense of guilt for thinking the representative from the women's shelter wouldn't show.
I roll both suitcases to the door, struggling when they won't cooperate with each other, all the while choking down the threat of sickness forming in my throat.
"I was afraid you weren't coming," I say as I open the front door.
I thought I knew fear, but it's nothing compared to the complete terror inside me when I see Graham standing there, his eyes dropping to the suitcases.
He's slow to look up at me, something he has mastered in his control since we got married. The anticipation of what's coming has always been one of his favorite parts of the mind games he likes to play with me.
"Going somewhere?" he asks, his voice calm and cool.
I know better than to lie. Lying always makes things worse, but I can't seem to muster the words of truth either.
"Let's talk inside," he says, stepping past me as if he doesn't have a single ounce of worry that I'll slip out behind him.
Dutifully and with shaking hands, I close us both back into the house.
"What did I tell you would happen if you ever tried to leave me?"
My hands tremble, my whole body shaking as I turn to face him.
"Go on," he urges when I remain speechless.
"Y-You s-said th-there's nowhere I can go th-that y-you c-can't f-find m-me," I answer, each word a struggle for me.
Tears stream down my face, and at this point, I don't know if it's my body's reaction to what's coming or a reflex, something rooted in knowing that the faster the tears come, the quicker things will end.
He loves to see me cry. It's always been one of his goals. Standing up to him, arguing with him, I learned early on, only makes things worse.
"You know I will," he says, the edge of calmness in his voice tinged with a hint of anger. "Yet there are two suitcases near the door."
He points, but I don't pull my eyes off him.
He turns his back to me, full of faith that I won't budge from where I'm standing, and heads toward the bar. The clink of a glass bottle against the whiskey glass lights something inside me.
I wouldn't call it bravery. That emotion has never been one I've had large amounts of.
Maybe it's a survival instinct or something similar, but now is not the time to have an existential crisis.
All I can think about is survival.
I spin, nearly toppling over from the action, and head for the front door.
Just as I pull it open, the warmth of the sun grazing my skin, I'm pulled back, my hair in the tight grip of his hand.
The door slams closed before I can release a yelp of pain.
This doesn't make sense.
His abuse and manipulation have never included physical violence.
He's thrown things near me, never at me. He'd punch the wall by my face but never strike my body.
He uses his words and threats of his power as weapons against me.
The woman at the shelter told me it was only a matter of time. His abuse and methods of punishment would eventually shift.
The abused woman in me automatically blames herself. My attempt to leave triggered this. I brought it on myself.
"People don't leave me," he says, his warm breath right in my face, the grip of his fingers in my hair until I can't help but wince in pain.