RESPIRE (LGBTQIA+)

Hopelessness

My thoughts seeped into a much darker place where my toes overhung the ledge, just wanting a slight breeze to topple me over the edge. I am trying to find a reason to hold on, but there is nothing left for me to grasp onto.

Inside, my mind was telling me there was no way out while my heart was battling for me to keep breathing, with no reason as to why. I knew I could never leave Kal, even though she might not notice if I was gone. We are starting to see each other less and less, no longer as close as we used to be when we lived together. She had her life with her dream job with a house, and then I had mine.

I was happy she had a career and was doing well for herself, probably in a relationship that was going steady. I would even go as far as to say that I am jealous of the life that she has made for herself. I had lost count of how many times the voice inside my head screamed at me to tell her to take me and not leave me here. The words would scratch at my throat to escape, only to drown.

Home life has never always been this way. When Kal used to live at home, my mother would always be nothing but smiles, constantly telling Kal how proud she was of her and always giving out praise for her. It was evident she loved Kal more and did not ever try to hide it, while I felt like a burden that caused nothing but problems.

And then Scott came along.

In the beginning, it was just verbal, while both he and Kal would argue over small things, and the older she got, the more argumentative she became. She was never intimidated by Scott and would always stand her ground with her heels dug in deep, and you could tell he did not like that she would never retreat.

When Kal left, that was when everything began to change.

The shouting turned into neck grabs, to which they slowly became more forceful and painful. Then came the occasional slap, which would be said to happen on accident until they were no longer accidents. Then followed my solitary confinement to keep me out of the way to repent, and then the door started locking to teach me a lesson I never knew I needed. The rest of the physical and psychological torment would follow along the way with the objects he used and the things he would say. When Scott would play his mind games, he would wait until he could see that you no longer had the strength to keep fighting, and that was when he would take this to his advantage to get inside your head.

The torment he caused me, was fueled by the fear that I had for him. He would break you down until all your threads snapped. He would leave you sleep-deprived and hungry. Your body would shiver from the cold in the winter and feel suffocated in the summer. There would never be an in-between.

If he gave me food or water, I had to see it as a reward that needed to be earned and not expected. His many lists of what not to do changed daily, and it started to feel like I could never do anything right. I keep my mouth shut. I speak when spoken to, and I rarely get out of the room he locks me in to be seen by him. Recently, I have noticed that when Kal stops by unannounced, he will sit in the cupboard with me to be sure I keep quiet and not make a sound, making the space cramped. During all of this, my mother would turn her back. I knew she could hear every slap, every hit, every cry of pain. And she would be as still as a statue. I could whimper and shake my head no. I could beg her not to lock me away, and her face held no emotion, muttering her usual as she left me on my hands and knees.

Then, on the days I was at school, I would be screaming inside my head for somebody to notice something, the number of times I wanted to pull off my jumper so they could see the bruises that coloured my skin. The scars. The welts and cuts. Sometimes, I could feel the noose. It would seem ready and waiting for me. All I needed to do was jump from the stand.

For the remainder of the day, everything seemed to run smoothly until gym class came around, where I refused to get changed into my gym clothes. Usually, when this subject was relevant, he would keep me home or make something up in a note. If I wore gym shorts, then everything would be on show, from the cuts and welts across my legs after being whipped with a belt or whatever he decided to use. The thought started to make me feel sick when I thought back to how he was last night, the abuse almost becoming a daily thing.