The first thing I do when I come back
Is try to tell you that he defiled me in some way
I don't tell you how his teeth pull on sensitive flesh
Beads of blood dribbling down his chin
Lackadaisical smile, predatory and darkly humored gleam in his eyes
His eyes are unfurling storm clouds
Every time he becomes angry his mouth sets in a thin line of grimness
I reach beyond that and try to pull out the man from fifteen minutes earlier
The one who grasped my hand during 2am joy rides to Taco Bell or McDonald's
Donuts in the parking lot as I squeal, childlike, content, euphoric, my body humming and buzzing with adrenaline
The man who kissed my forehead, early in the morning,
Whispered I love you against my temple, thinking I wasn't half-awake
The first thing I do when I come back
Is retreat into a head-space, monochromatic
I listen to the same songs on repeat
I leave my phone, unattended, on the lime-green desk
I flop onto my stomach on my bed
I conjure up fifteen messages in the span of two days and send them to him
No one is present to tell me to stop
The first thing I do when I come back
Is tell myself that he will drive to my house
White 2010 Charger idling next to my black and red mailbox
I can see him through my sheer off-white curtains
He'll peer up at me
I'll slip on my flats and rush downstairs
He'll pepper my face with butterfly-light kisses
Exclaim how much he loves me and misses me
The first thing I do when I come back
Is, instead, remember his hands pressing against my throat
The coldness of his eyes
Furrowed brow, dry lips, teeth bared
An animal stalking and conquering its prey
I am a fawn in the jaws of a wolf
His maw is bloodied
I am dying
The first thing I do when I come back
Is try to tell you this but you say it's my fault
I left, you say
I packed my bags angrily and impulsively, you say
I was ill, I reply defensively
You still left, you say
You still walked into it, you say
I feel his hands around my neck, mom
I feel his hands pressing the pillow down on top of my head, mom
I feel him smothering and choking me, mom
He wants me to ******* die
I feel his words scratching along the surface of my skull
I hear his voice slithering along, serpentine, cunning, sluicing through my bloodstream
I feel him everywhere
I feel him inside
I feel him invading me
I feel him roughly entering me, mom
I feel him not stopping
I feel his insistence and entitlement
It hurts, mom
I'm sorry
I'm ******* sorry
The first thing I do when I come back
Weeks later after I phone the domestic abuse hot-line
The call, recorded at approximately 1 hour and 22 minutes (a guess—shot in the murky proverbial dark)
Is phone him 28 times, convince myself he's really having *** with a coworker like he said
Convince myself that somehow in my addled brain he'll come back
I sit in the laundry room downstairs, open a bottle of Chlorine bleach
Contemplate drinking it
Scream until my voice is hoarse
Plead with him
Ask him
Wonder
Aloud
Why would you do this to me?
After four years...
Why did you do all of this to me?
The first thing I do when I come back
Is sit in a therapist's office about two to three years later
Tears pooling in my eyes
Gnawing on my lip
Worrying my dry hands
And say softly:
“I need help.
Help me dig his grave.
Help me lower the ******* coffin.
Please, help me bury the voice.”
I tell her what I couldn't tell you, mom
I tell her that he's still there
exulansis
n. the tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it—whether through envy or pity or simple foreignness—which allows it to drift away from the rest of your life story, until the memory itself feels out of place, almost mythical, wandering restlessly in the fog, no longer even looking for a place to land.
