Out of Ashes

         The curtains were drawn against the darkness outside. The air conditioner hummed in the window frame and the oscillating fan squeaked imperceptibly back and forth across the room. I lay motionless on the floor, the scrape of carpet against my back and the rush of breath above me. I could feel the scream building in my head, but there was no one to hear. I squelched it in the name of self-preservation. I feared what would happen if it was allowed to escape. The itch of salt tears ran tracks down my face and I clenched my eyes tight against the invasion outside. I wanted to move, but my hands were pinned above my head. I wanted to scream, but I knew the consequences would only make him laugh and thrust harder. So, instead, I lay upon the ground. A christening of my new apartment with blood and tears.

         The minutes seemed like hours as he heaved himself above me, my wrists felt like cracking as they slid across the carpet in time with his brutal movements. I could feel the sensitive skin of my inner thighs chafe as they were pushed wide, to the limits of the muscle stretch. The dryness of my nether lips as they were invaded again and again, burning, tearing, a pain I could feel ripping the delicate skin. When it was over, I wanted to curl into myself and die. I could feel the wet stickiness of semen coating my stomach and inner thighs. I prayed there wasn’t a baby from such a destruction of my life. In the darkness I felt him move away, heard the scuff of carpet under his bare feet as he stalked across the room, saw the yellow of the bathroom light flick on as he turned the faucets on. I felt numb as I waited alone in the night of my bedroom. My mind was whirling, a scream held back, nauseous I waited in dread for him to come back.

         He settled back into the cocoon of blankets spread out on the floor, sighing contentedly, I thanked God, as I feared he would want more. Slowly I unwound myself from the tangle, he grabbed my arm, “Don’t get that shit on me.” I shook my head moving my hands to catch the stream of liquid as it moved across my stomach to treacle down my legs.

         “Of course not, I’m sorry.”

         Carefully I walked to where he’d shut the bathroom door only moments before. Clenching the sink in my hands I stood in the oppressiveness of the room before moving to turn on the light. Quickly I stuffed a towel under to door, knowing how angry he would be if a slice of light escaped and fell on his face as he tried to sleep. Shutting my eyes I turned to face the mirror. The paleness of my body against the bruises on my skin was nothing I had not seen before. I lightly prodded the swollen spot above my breast that had been there for months. Constantly renewed in case I were to forget to whom I belonged to. It was dark, almost black in the light from the mirrored bulbs, the teeth prints almost indiscernible in the reflection.

         I only stared at the mess I had become, seeing the milky stain flowing across my belly and from my womb. The swollen labia and speckles of blood from being poorly used. I grabbed a washcloth and tried to muffle the sound the water made against the bowl of the sink as I gingerly wet the rag and tried to scrub my misery away. The tears continued to poor down my face as I wiped globs of blood and semen from between my legs.

         When I finished attempting to scrape the evidence of his assault from my body, I had no choice but to return and sleep beside him. Taking a deep breath I flicked out the bathroom light and moved steadily across the carpeted floor where his snores told me I had no more to fear that night. Lying sleepless beside him through the night, I knew I couldn’t stay in my apartment again. I’d just signed the lease but in doing had put myself at his mercy more than I ever had before. I knew what I had to do but I had to make it through the night and pretend that everything was as it had been before. In the morning I drove him home, I can’t help but look back at how utterly pathetic I was. A loose shirt covered my body, carefully chosen to hide the bruises across my chest. A smile pasted on a face that had looked death in the eye and invited it back to spar with another day. I was anything but brave. As I sped down the highway to my parents’ house I watched the telephone poles fly by and fought the urge to drive my car straight into one of those wooden poles.

         That morning I told my parents I wanted to move back home. I called my landlord and told him there had been a mistake. When He called, I told him I wasn’t ready to have my own place. I still remember the threats he made. How he yelled at me over the phone. Told me I was messing up all of our plans. Plans I had never agreed to make. Plans that involved my constant rape. I couldn’t keep myself from apologizing. Over and over I spouted the line, “I’m sorry, but I’m just not ready.” The whole time I was plotting on how to continue to distance myself from him as my stomach rolled and I reminded myself I was right.

         Stress was the excuse I needed to sever all ties. One evening about a week since my return home he called because I hadn’t been answering his texts. I told him I thought we needed to take a break. I said I was overwhelmed and needed time to think. Angry he responded in his normal way. Cursing me, telling me how stupid I had turned out to be. I managed to stay in control until I hung up the phone. I fell apart on the living room floor. I cried like the world was ending but couldn’t find the courage to tell my mother why. She didn’t know about that night at my apartment, she didn’t know about the bruises that colored my skin, the insults and accusations that had been hurled my way. I’m sure she suspected, but didn’t have the nerve to open such a giant can of worms. After all, where was the proof that anything had happened? That was the giant question that revolved in my head.

         I will always remember that summer. The humidity, the sticky weather, and the fear I felt in the dark of night, as I lay pinned to the ground. The taste of blood in my mouth, the sting of tears in my eyes, as I clenched my hands and prayed for death. I was almost crazy by the time it was all done. I lost five pounds in three days that first week. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I could barely drive to work in the morning. Wracked by panic attacks I muddled through the day. Constantly afraid that today would be the day he walked through the door with a gun.

         The weeks dragged by and I tried to deal with all my pain. I couldn’t tell what had been done to me, but I couldn’t deal with it on my own. I was sunk in the deepest depression I had ever known and didn’t have a shovel to dig my way back out. When I wasn’t crying it seemed I was pacing the floor. I couldn’t stand my own company and had to be outdoors. I stayed close to home. I wouldn’t leave the house except to go to work. Afterward, I drove straight home. I felt like I was teetering on the edge.

         On and on it went, that summer, that fall. I was slow to return to who I’d been before and will never be quite the same. There’s an underlying fear within that no matter what, my memories will never be far. Though He is gone now from my life, there are things he left behind, scars that are deep, wounds that are still healing. The bruises may have faded but the skin is raw. I keep living, I’ve moved beyond the potentially suicidal depression. I’ve gotten past the majority of my rage. I don’t know how I’ve lived through it all. I just keep reminding myself that I can’t let him win. No matter what, the choices I make can’t be because of or in spite of him. They have to be my own.



Word Count: 1479