I’ve never been a victim of domestic violence, but I’ve always wanted to know what goes on in the mind of a victim, so this is me putting myself in the shoes of countless:
He reaches out to make sure I still love him as I wipe away the blood on my lips. He needs to make sure his crimson rage wave didn’t blindsight him again, but it did. He didn’t realize that his hand struck me but just in case he’s still delirious I don’t move from my current position on the carpet. I breathe steadily trying not to focus on the pulsating pain within my cheek….nickels, it tastes like nickels. Nickels fresh from the bank that had been transported in an armored vehicle. That nickel you find at the bottom of the pool when you submerged yourself into tranquil waters and it is just you and that nickel. I think its safe to get up again, to silently go look at myself in the mirror and see the complications of love. Every time I reach for that bathroom doorknob time stops briefly, as if to let me know you’ll be ok if you can just make it through this again. Thinking this way isn’t right neither is the fact that I’d do anything to help him through this.