Eggshells

one

The pain in my lungs is what allowed me to stay awake. I don't know if it was fear that I would not wake up; or the uncomfortable tingles that spread through my chest. I don't know. I worry that each time he hits me, the worse it gets.  I don't know why he was so angry.

Either way, sleep felt like a luxury I couldn't afford. Each breath was a gamble, sharp and shallow, like my lungs were protesting every inhale. I lay there staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks like they were seconds ticking down.

I wanted to cry, but even that felt like too much effort. The tears wouldn't fix what was broken. And I'm not just talking about my ribs.

It's funny—how the body keeps going even when the soul is begging to stop.

Countless times my nights were an endless cycle. School, work, home, bruises, cold shower, empty stomach, no sleep. I was exhausted. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

Each day blurred into the next, like some sick twisted joke that I never asked to be a part of.  The silence was laughing at me.

It echoes through my four bedroom walls. Reminding me that I was alone in this, and that no one was ever coming. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever.

Xavier was snoring softly, sleeping peacefully in his bedroom. My blood boiled. So much energy used on his latest beating.

This time, he laughed in my face. He pulled my hair so hard, that he ripped a few strands out. He fondled himself as he watched me in pain.

No remorse. Just..satisfaction. He got off on my being in pain. He loved to see me powerless. It made him hungry.

Why don't you call the cops?

Why don't you leave?  you're old enough.

As if it were that simple. Lord knows I wish it was. It's because he promised me that he would kill me. It wasn't a threat. He promised.

I had tried to before -- tried to leave. But he was not having that. My plan was to leave at the right moment but sadly, that moment never came. My packed duffle bag was under my bed. Xavier had found it.

At first, he wasn't angry, he didn't hurt me. I was so hopeful. Thought that maybe he had turned over a new leaf. But then a terrifying smirk had turned  his mouth. He had stroked my face gently. A strand of hair was pushed behind my ear. Then he grabbed my jaw with his pointer finger and thumb and squeezed as hard as he could.

I believed him. In fact, I am sure he already knew how he would do it. His calm certainty is what scared me the most.

I envisioned pieces of my body along the east coast. Buzzards going to town on my ankle in Maryland. My torso, deep in a landfill in Virginia. My fingers in a river in Delaware. Still clenched...holding on.

I was terrified. So I stayed. Call it obedience. Call it weakness. Call it whatever the fuck you wanted.  I had accepted that this was to be my life until I was no longer living.