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Statuesque Adulation

The Riddler

It Was Spoken

Mein Hetz Angst

Wind & Willows

Banana Cream Pie

1994

It’s a cool March night, and we’re not happy with each other. He bought marijuana last month, taking out two-hundred dollars from the checking account. Now all his drugs are gone and the checking account is at a negative balance. The stress is too much. He’s screaming loudly at me from the kitchen. Screaming at me, ordering me to get in there right now. I stand, frozen with fear in the bedroom. I don’t want to go in there. The hallway is carpeted and I don’t hear his footsteps, nor do I hear him enter the bedroom.

I feel his rough hands on my shoulders as he pulls me by the collarbone, turning me to face him. His grip loosens, then he squeezes my neck, choking me while he yells at me, "When I call for you, you’d better come! When I tell you to do something you’d better do it!"

He lets go and his fist strikes my cheek as I cry out and try to run. The room is too small to get past him. I leap onto the bed, but he grabs my leg and my feet fall loose from beneath me.

Caught, I curl up into a small ball. His fists pummel at my back as I raise my knees to cover my face. His hands are at my throat again, squeezing,, pulling and cinching my esophagus. I stop crying and fight to breathe. My athsma kicks in, making breathing, an almost impossible feat. Still crimped in a ball, I ride out the beating.

My eyes are clenched shut, but stars dance behind my eyelids. I watch flashes of light flare and dissipate while the fists deliver blow after blow to the back of my head. Finally, the lights stop and there is a welcome numbness and buzzing in my head. Everything is dark.

I regain consciousness and uncurl myself. I am shaking, and my legs wobble at the knees as I grope in the dark bedroom for shoes. Next, I slip my old, tattered leather jacket on, cringing as the heaviness of the garment hits my shoulders. My head, face and shoulders are throbbing in pain with each beat of my heart. Can I make it out the door? I try to tip-toe, but my equilibrium is off. I step into the kitchen and pick up the phone. I dial 91- I feel the snap of the phone chord as it’s yanked from the wall. He asks me if I planned on calling someone. I throw the phone in the air and as he reaches to catch it, I’m dashing out of the apartment.

I’m running and wheezing. The cold air surges in my lungs. It is very painful, but I’ll deal with it. I run to the corner gas station. My eyes dart around frantically in their sockets. I am looking for his car to pull up, to see him jump out and pull me back in. I yell in desperation to the person who is on the pay phone. They hang up and stare at me briefly before shaking their head and shuffling off to their car.

I dial 911 and cradle the receiver carefully. My sore back is pressed against the whitewashed brick wall of the gas station. People are walking in and out of the store, staring at me as they pass. I talk to the operator, staring out into the busy street, watching for his car. I answer her questions and tell her my situation. I give her my location. All of this, I say through gasps and heavy, uncontrollable sighs. No, there are not any guns in the house. No, he hadn’t been drinking. I don’t remember exactly what she tells me, but it is understood that a police officer will be there to help me. I tell her I am scared and to please hurry. He could be here any time.

Two squad cars pull up and their headlights beam across the white wall and me. I am crouched down, huddled in a ball around the side of the gas station. Sobbing, I answer their questions as they study my bruises and the finger marks along my throat. The rays from their flashlights dance over me. It is then, when I realize that I am wearing mismatched tennis shoes. I get into the back of one of the squad car to take me back to the house. They remove him from the apartment. He goes peacefully. I go back inside and lock the door. I plug the phone back in and leave a voice mail at the office that I will not be in the following morning.

The phone rings several hours later, it is the police department; calling to let me know that they are letting him out now. Several hours after that, he returns, angry that he had to walk home. He starts to scream again, but this time I tell him to get out and not come back.

His father calls the next day to tell me that we need to get him help now. He needs our help and we cannot desert him in his time of need. I stand, looking in the mirror at my swollen cheek and neck, mottled with splotches of red and purple as I tell him that his son does need help. I will try to help him. He needs us.

Over time ... The marks go away eventually, but he never sought help. He couldn't control his rage, so he controlled me. I gathered the courage to leave after two more years of the control, or lack thereof. Each day, I come out of my shell a little more, and bit by bit, the invisible scars fade.

(1994, Copyright, 2000 by Tara Peterson) ©