Leaving the Past

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Silently, so as not to be heard, the figure in black slipped through the doorway, stumbling over his feet as if they were made of cement. But she didn’t need to hear him. She waited and watched from her hiding place as he wobbled to his side of the bed and threw himself down onto it, not even remembering to take off his shoes in his drunken stupor. She peered through the crack in the bedroom door, listening patiently for his breathing to even out as the poison of the alcohol moved through his bloodstream, lulling him into a sleep comparable to that of the dead.
[i]This is it—my chance. It has to be now. [/i]She believed that life handed out chances for a reason, and there was no way she could pass this one up. Creeping into the room, she avoided her sleeping lover as she pulled shirts off their hangers and stuffed them into a sack as quietly as possible, even though it wasn’t likely he’d wake until much later the next day. Her ribs screamed at her as she reached for personal items on the top shelf, screamed like she had when they’d cracked under the pressure of his fist. The pain was a constant reminder of why she had to leave.
She risked snatching her watch from the bedside table—risked being so close to him, putting her hand within his arm’s length of him—a necessary gamble, and paused to take in the man that slept. His face was so peaceful when in the midst of slumber, with his long dark hair draped over half of his face, covering his forehead, tickling dark lashes and accenting his near-perfect lips. This was not the face of a monster. How was it possible that the same face that could fill her with such love and devotion could also strike such a deep-seeded fear in her heart? Flashes of that face in the fever of rage, his eyebrows lowered so far over his blazing eyes and his mouth set in a growl filled her mind and gave her the strength to look away. It took so much out of her every time. All she felt was the exhaustion; Lord she was so tired. It was a deep enervation that surpassed the physical connotation of the word; a mental languidness that came from carrying the burden of the abuse and ate away at who she was every day to the point that she feared she may never feel whole again.
She entered the small bathroom down the hall, and as quietly as she could, slid the door shut. She took a deep breath, and flicked on the light. For a second she froze, she feared the blinding light would wake her slumbering husband, but the house continued to remain silent. Turning to the mirror she took in what was now her. Bruises painted her light skin in ugly shades of blue, black, green, and yellow; each of which held a horrific story she would hold with her forever. Such aggression. Such anger. She never thought that the man she fell in love with could harbor such darkness.
With shaking hands, she made quick work of erasing the evidence of her past. She wrapped her aching ribs, and used make-up to cover the shadow of bruises on her face and neck. When she was finished she stood back and looked at herself again. From the eyes of a stranger it was impossible to tell that she was a battered woman. Her skin was free of the blemishes that haunted her. The bruises did not show, however, she could feel them there all the same, and knew that time was only thing that could heal them.
All her personal belongings finally packed she walked on silent feet into the bedroom that held memories of both joy and love, yet also mostly of pain and grief. Her head was held low as she made her way to her husband’s dresser and rifled through the clothes. Just as she was about to close her fingers around the wad of green bills that lay at the bottom, a loud grunt sounded from the edge of the room and the man who was slumped on the bed rolled onto his side. For half a minute she didn’t turn, she didn’t move, she dared not even breathe for fear of the wrath she was sure would come if indeed he caught her in the act. For a minute she second-guessed taking the money, but she needed it and was adamant about moving forward with her plans. There was no coming back this time.
Before she left their bedroom for the last time, she chanced a look at his face once more. Inching it’s way in like a snake looking to slide into a mouse hole, a long ago forgotten memory presented itself to her. A white gown, friends and family, a giant cake that had taken hours to create, faces frozen in various stages of laughter, but most of all the presence of a cheery, gentle smile on a man who had captured her heart and promised to cherish her forever. The memory began to take root in her mind, and a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. But just in time a pain from her side shot through her body and tore the images from their hold on, not only her mind, but also her heart.
[i]He hurt me. He tore me up until there was nothing left, and still desired to hurt me more. Is this the type of man I fell in love with? No! This is not the same man. He is gone and dead, just like my love for him. This is my chance, and this is my time. I rule my life now. And no one stops me.[/i]
Before anything else could happen, before the fragile hold she had on her composure could be crumbled at the appearance of another happy memory, she snatched up her bag, grabbed the car keys, and stole out the back door.
The night was cool and dry, a typical summer evening; one she would imagine young people out in. Free people, like her new self. She shut the door behind her and walked down the driveway. And then silently, so as not to be heard, the figure in black was gone.





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