Trigger Warning: This essay discusses and describes domestic abuse.

This is Wrong

by Vaughn R. Demont

When I got home I opened the door, my head pointed down, the door sweeping back over the trampled down brown carpet, over the stains that had been there since I moved in, and then the door stopped, a dull weak thud and split-second rumble, metal against a filled cardboard box. Saw one, then two, a stack of four, the hallway that ran the length of the apartment bordered with them all, simple brown cubes and long thick coffin-like egg-boxes with squat plastic containers perched on them as I stepped sideways between them all. My breathing quickened. He might not have heard the door open. There was a chance he wasn't there.

Frank was supposed to be gone by the time I got home. He was supposed to have loaded up his U-Haul and been off for parts unknown. Today he was supposed to be gone. Today I was supposed to be free. Today it’s all supposed to stop.

Today I’m supposed to be able to go out into the living room of the apartment at five in the afternoon even though that’s an hour he’s usually home and eat something from the cupboard even though he’s told me that it’s all off limits. Today I’m supposed to be able to sit down on the couch that was a hand-me-down from my grandmother with a pattern not unlike a cheap carpet, turn on the radio to the hard rock station I like, and just listen and be. Tonight I was supposed to be unafraid of sleep.

My room was a few steps away. He never went in there anymore. He’d moved to the adjacent room after we broke up. I thought it would be one of those easy breakups where you just say you parted ways. Frank didn’t like having to see me around. He didn’t want me eating any of the food that he paid for. He preferred I stay in my room, and to keep the door closed so he wouldn’t have to see it when he went to the bathroom that was across the hall.

Two years ago I’d have told him to go fuck himself.

 

Six months ago he shoved me into a closet door, the doorknob bruising my kidney. I had blood in my urine for a day afterward. The shove also knocked my head against the doorframe and I stayed awake for the rest of the night, afraid that I'd fall asleep and die from a concussion. This was all according to him, he was a certified nursing assistant. He was saving my life. I should have been grateful.

It was just joking around, really. Horseplay that had gotten a little too rough and I’d cracked my head against the door by accident. It’s not like he really meant it. I knew that he loved me and that he was sorry and that he’d never really mean to do anything like that. That would make him some kind of monster.

A year ago he didn’t speak for me.

I came into my room and closed the door behind me. The room was dominated by the bed, full-size, not much room between it and the closet, the frame cheap and hand-me-down, the color of the wood reminding me of a bowling alley. The shades on the windows were drawn. The closet’s contents were strewn on the floor, drawers opened and emptied, blankets in a clumped pile in the corner of the bed, TV gone, phone unplugged as usual. My journal was half out of its bindings, pages ripped, passages with gouges of ink through them, cuts and incisions through words like “alone” and “hate”. There was no more poetry in there for him, no more images of the sky caught in his eyes.

There was a mid-pitch thud outside the window, which looked out into the parking lot. I didn’t need to look outside. I closed the door to my room and grabbed the blankets, curling up in the corner of the bed furthest from the door, pulling the covers over me and shaking them slightly, trying to make it look more like a disheveled pile. I ran through my route from the front door to my room, tried to remember every step, every motion to make sure that I hadn't disturbed anything, left no traces of my arrival home.

He’d been through the room already, it seemed. He’d taken what he wanted and he was going to be on his way as long as I kept quiet and didn’t move. I chanced a look through the shade and saw a large U-Haul parked, back gate open, facing the entry to the building. There were enough boxes that it’d take him more than an hour to load everything up and be on his way. I had to use the bathroom but I could wait. I’d done longer. I’d gotten through the days before when he’d only leave the apartment for five minutes and I’d gotten everything I’d needed to do done in the space of that time. An hour would be easy. Piece of cake.

I kept curled under the blankets, flexing muscles every few seconds to keep them from falling asleep but always being careful with the motion, remembering the creakiness of the boxspring and the groans of the cross-supports. I heard the front door open and close, I heard “Anyone here?” a couple times. I held my breath, closed my eyes tight, my muscles tensed. Let him think he can just slip away, slip out, escape me to his better job in a better town and a better life. Let the dream of Philadelphia carry him away.

In an hour he would be gone. Two at most. I heard the front door open and close as he carried boxes slowly to the truck outside, muttered remarks that I couldn't make out, but I knew I heard my name.

I'd known he was leaving for two weeks. I'd heard his side of phone calls to his parents, to his friends in other states, rantings and ventings on the difficulty of living here, the low paying work, the weather, the bills, how everything was on him and how I was no help. I'd started hiding things that I knew were mine before he started packing everything up. Books, CDs, DVDs, they were stashed under mountains of laundry, in the cavernous space under the boxspring, in the study carrel at the library at school, in drawers at my mother's house.

I heard him just outside and I stiffened. My jaw ached from clenching my teeth, my tailbone was sore from a stray spring from the mattress starting to dig in. I heard the low static hiss of a door moving across carpet. My hand trembled and I clenched it into a tight fist, my fingernails digging into my palm to give me something to focus on, maintain my pose, keeping the bed from creaking.

“Yeah.” His voice was near the door, not five feet away from me. “I've got everything I need from here.” Heard soft taps of rubber-soled shoes on carpet, no low-static of the door being pulled shut. He'd left it open, easy access in case he suddenly remembered something. It'd only take a stray glance at the wrong time. I couldn't remember where I'd hid his knife.

 

Eight months ago I was still interested in sex. We could still go at it in the afternoon if the mood took us, but we'd gone to retreating to the bedroom rather than just screwing where we stood. We'd managed to catch each other in a mood where the idea was mutually agreed on. At first it started with the regular routine: kissing, then making out, then the three minute pause while you both get undressed, and then you resume. His hands were on my wrists, teeth on the nape of my neck, his weight fully on me. His grip was tight, fingers rubbing hard against the skin, my breath at half-strength. Everything started to hurt.

“Stop. Frank. I can't breathe.”

No response, other than fingernails digging into my wrists.

“Stop. Please. Stop it.”

He lifted for a moment, I opened my mouth and sucked on the air until my chest stopped hurting.

“Let go. My wrists are getting sore.”

The bed creaked as he planted his knees between my legs, wedging them spread. “C'mon, it's my turn, ok?”

I tried to twist my arms free, my wrists getting rubbed harder, my eyes clenched and for a moment I flashed on third grade and Indian burn survival contests.

“Stop it!”

I could feel my eyes getting itchy, my throat feeling dry and constricted. His hands released my wrists and the skin felt suddenly cool and moist for a second before the throbbing began.

A moment passed, the skin on my wrists felt hot, looked red and blotchy, fingermarks visible.

“Did I hurt you?” I just nodded, figuring that it wasn't intentional, that this wasn't him letting me know he was into rough stuff. He got off the bed, went into his top drawer, and took out a small knife in a dark brown leather sheath. The handle had a river carved on it with mountains in the background, a fisherman on the shore. “I would never hurt you. Not intentionally. If I ever lay a hand on you...” He took my hand, and opened the fist, placed the knife there. “Use this.”

I should have known to run right there.

 

My legs were cramping. There was a sharp pain in my thigh, my toes felt like they couldn't unclench. He was still moving boxes. My sides ached, my bladder felt barely squeezed shut. It felt like an hour had gone by. My hair felt stringy, my skin sticky with sweat. I had to get to the bathroom, or at least outside.

When I heard the front door close I waited a few seconds, didn't hear any steps inside the apartment, and peeked out of the cover of the blankets, checked the windows. The storms, the thick panes of glass to keep the apartment warm, were on. Kicking the windows would mean a loud shattering crash instead of a softer thunk that he might otherwise shrug off.

I should have closed the door and gone walking the moment I saw the boxes. I shouldn't have come in, shouldn't have stayed. Another few hours and he would've been gone. He was going to find me and I was going to have to explain why I was there, why I didn't answer when he called.

I froze when I heard the door open again. I wanted to move, to get back under the blankets, to follow the old rule of being perfectly safe as long as I was completely hidden. I stood on my knees, my muscles felt pulled too far. The boxspring creaked. I heard steps in the hall. I turned fast enough to see him standing in the doorway.

Frank folded his arms, narrowed his eyes. He was wearing brown slacks, a polo shirt that was some kind of off-white. “Where are the DVDs?”

I couldn't speak.

“Where are the fucking DVDs? You hid them, didn't you?”

The pulled drawers and their emptied contents showed that he hadn't been successful in his search. My throat slowly closed.

He crossed the distance and dug his fingers into my shoulder, yanking me forward, “Where are they?”

My face felt wet. My eyes felt hot.

He shoved me backward, my back hit the wall and he left the room, “Fucking useless.”

I felt relieved. I got off the bed and went into the bathroom, my back feeling warm and pinched as I emptied my bladder. When I came out the hallway was free of boxes, the walls bare. There was a garbage bag full of food near the door. He took it outside, and through the window I saw him throw it in the dumpster. When he came back in I backed away down the hallway. He put a brick from outside in front of the door to keep it open. Only five boxes left.

“What was I supposed to be to you, huh? Your fucking wallet? You know how much money you owe me?”

He followed me down the hallway. I backed up a few more steps, my room to the right, the bathroom right behind me. There was only one light on in the apartment, the rest coming from the doorway. The sun was going down. I remember shaking.

“Christ, you're fucking useless!”

Frank moved his hands. I thought it was a hand gesture at first, but he was taking off one of his rings. At first I thought it was something symbolic, like truly breaking it off between us.

Then he took off the other one, then the last, and started toward me, his hands balling into fists.

This isn't happening.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, huh?”

I felt myself pushed into the doorframe of the bathroom. My back against the jamb.

This isn't happening.

“Why are you so fucking useless?”

I felt something hard hit my stomach. Then again. Then again.

This isn't happening.

“Fucking...”

My rib cage.

“Useless!”

Shoved back against the door jamb. My head snapped back. Everything felt light and warm and wet.

I think I screamed.

I lost my balance. Something pushed me to my left. I fell. My arms collided with the bathtub. My head bounced off the toilet.

This isn't happening.

“There.”

I felt something wet splash against my face.

“Now you can just tell people I hit you and come off the victim in this.”

I heard him walk away. I crawled into my room. I couldn't breathe. Everything felt wet and warm and red.

I saw a fisherman standing in a river, a great range of mountains, a brown leather sheath, all just underneath the dresser. I reached for it, unsnapped the leather strap holding the blade in. I heard him in the adjacent room.

It would be simple.

Unsheathe. Stick. Twist. Pull.

Repeat as needed.

He would never hurt me again.

I pulled the knife out of its sheath and tried to get up. The room spun, my hair felt sticky, I grabbed a dirty towel and pressed it against my head, felt a sting. I held onto the knife as I heard him walk to the front door.

“Good fucking riddance.”

I heard something clack against a hall closet door, then a hard slam. Then the sound of a truck starting. I held still, clutching the knife for a few minutes more. All was shadow, save a glint of light reflected off the blade.

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Posted from my blog with SteemPress : https://vaughndemont.com/2018/06/14/this-is-wrong-cnf/

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