Babe, I'm gonna leave you
This is a post for The Tenth Daughter of Memory.
The pain came upon her slowly in the dark.
She wanted nothing more than for her head to be cut clean off; at least then it’d be over quicker.
He just felt like he needed to be in control, that was it.
She should’ve picked up on the signs in the brief overview of his history that he’d allowed her to see. The way he demanded everything to be done as he liked it.
His cool regard towards anything she was even remotely interested in.
He’d started off as something of a novelty.
The shy, ugly one that made her heart melt.
Unlike the loud, obnoxious ones for whom beauty was only skin deep.
And now here he was, the heart of gold that had transformed into something a lot more sinister.
He was the kind of man that didn’t reveal too much of himself too soon. He was that glass of nice chardonnay that simply made an impact on you with the first sip, and you didn’t realise until many mouthfuls later that you’d had far too much, and you’d regret it.
For someone who thought she was perfect, he was awfully good at picking on her imperfections.
Someone had once accused her of being with him only for his wealth, but the only thing that she got out of it all was a slightly increased feeling of self-worth for a brief few minutes in the dark.
They had an odd sort of companionship, really.
In public, they didn’t really ever seem to be appropriate, or enjoy whatever it was they were engaging in.
To be fair, it wasn’t much better behind closed doors and frosted windows; they were the love-hate relationship at its best.
Sadly, as she blossomed and took shape, he stayed boring as ever; ordinary old two eggs over easy for lunch when all she wanted was to try something exotic.
She still had three more rounds of truth to fire into him, yet he’d already heard enough to hurt her.
But she couldn’t lie any longer, and if the truth killed her, so be it.
She couldn’t continue hiding everything away, and eternal darkness was more appealing than this.
He left an unpleasant aftertaste in her mouth, and she was sick of getting drunk on memories to make up for the sickness in her stomach.
The problem was she’d never done this before; leaving him would be like leaping out of a plane without anything to slow the fall.
Hell, she’d hardly even worn three different shades of lipstick in her life.
How was she to know when it all began that some day she’d close her eyes in the shower and try not to vomit whenever he crossed her mind?
He’d always been an embarrassment to her, sadly.
The way he dressed, the way he acted when things didn't go his way, the sharp comments he threw at her friends.
He on the other hand, didn’t find her to be an embarrassment: Simply a disobedient young girl that didn’t come home when she should.
Perhaps it wasn’t so strange that dinner and a movie could lead to her lying on the concrete in the dark.
Even in her woozy state every aspect of him repulsed her as he stood over her body.
She knew he’d react badly, and this sort of reaction shouldn’t have taken her by surprise, but a punch to the back of the head isn’t even remotely similar to a real man’s way of dealing with things.
It was no surprise that she couldn’t make head or tail of her mixed-up thoughts.
Though, that was how it was most of the time with him: her confused state forced her to pretend that everything was alright until it all hit her in her fully awake state once again.
Sometimes she secretly wished she could ram the heels of those stilettos he liked her to wear in bed right through his flabby stomach. She’d find those shoes all the more beautiful if she could only do something like that with them.
Maybe if she’d done that sooner, it wouldn’t have been her that would need to be put back together after this cruel night.
She noticed as he grabbed her ankles that he too had red stains around his collar. Although his were more likely attributed to the wine she’d thrown in his face rather than the blood that was trickling down towards her neck.
He believed it was her breaking his heart that had caused him to hurt her.
She could have at least given him a second-second chance, he’d told her.
But she couldn’t help that she didn’t love him, and that a close friend had become a little closer during the times she needed to escape him the most.
She knew he couldn’t really love her now, but for some reason, for all his abusive ways, he didn’t have the guts to kill her.
He was only abusive when no one could see him, she supposed; if he risked leaving a trace, that was enough to scare him off.
Spies liked speculating about suspicious stains and marks, after all.
What the eyes of onlookers didn’t know, was that she’d take French toast over his French kisses any day.
The house was still black inside when he pulled her to the front door. The skin on her shoulders burned a little from being dragged up the path. Her long, thin fingers twitched slightly as she thought of punching him in the stomach, but that would require energy she didn’t have. It didn’t help that a couple of them felt broken from when she’d put out her hand awkwardly to break her fall.
She winced a little as he picked her up, carrying her through the doorway more like a groom would carry his bride than a psychopath would carry his hostage.
That was when she heard the voice.
“How about a beer, eh?”
He dropped her legs as he ripped his pocket knife out of his jeans, leaving her back arched over his left arm for a few seconds before he violently pulled her against him.
She managed a whimper as the figure stepped out into the sliver of light provided by the open door, realising it was the one who had been the subject of this whole poisonous argument.
She predicted she’d be needing a neck rub when this whole thing was over. She was beginning to wonder if perhaps boring and stale wasn’t so bad after all in contrast to this.
She struggled to breathe as his grip tightened under her ribs, “How many months has this been going on then, huh?”
He might have tried to sound tough, but as she said, he was terrified whenever others could see him. The sweat she could feel pressing onto her back and neck was starting to show it.
The figure laughed, “You just don’t get it, do you? Nothing’s been ‘going on,’ Jack, we’re just two friends who know each other a lot better than you’ll ever know anyone.”
“Back the fuck off,” Jack spitted, as she slipped lower and was held in a headlock against his side.
The pain came upon her slowly in the dark.
She wanted nothing more than for her head to be cut clean off; at least then it’d be over quicker. He just felt like he needed to be in control, that was it.
The pain came upon her slowly in the dark.
She wanted nothing more than for her head to be cut clean off; at least then it’d be over quicker.
He just felt like he needed to be in control, that was it.
She should’ve picked up on the signs in the brief overview of his history that he’d allowed her to see. The way he demanded everything to be done as he liked it.
His cool regard towards anything she was even remotely interested in.
He’d started off as something of a novelty.
The shy, ugly one that made her heart melt.
Unlike the loud, obnoxious ones for whom beauty was only skin deep.
And now here he was, the heart of gold that had transformed into something a lot more sinister.
He was the kind of man that didn’t reveal too much of himself too soon. He was that glass of nice chardonnay that simply made an impact on you with the first sip, and you didn’t realise until many mouthfuls later that you’d had far too much, and you’d regret it.
For someone who thought she was perfect, he was awfully good at picking on her imperfections.
Someone had once accused her of being with him only for his wealth, but the only thing that she got out of it all was a slightly increased feeling of self-worth for a brief few minutes in the dark.
They had an odd sort of companionship, really.
In public, they didn’t really ever seem to be appropriate, or enjoy whatever it was they were engaging in.
To be fair, it wasn’t much better behind closed doors and frosted windows; they were the love-hate relationship at its best.
Sadly, as she blossomed and took shape, he stayed boring as ever; ordinary old two eggs over easy for lunch when all she wanted was to try something exotic.
She still had three more rounds of truth to fire into him, yet he’d already heard enough to hurt her.
But she couldn’t lie any longer, and if the truth killed her, so be it.
She couldn’t continue hiding everything away, and eternal darkness was more appealing than this.
He left an unpleasant aftertaste in her mouth, and she was sick of getting drunk on memories to make up for the sickness in her stomach.
The problem was she’d never done this before; leaving him would be like leaping out of a plane without anything to slow the fall.
Hell, she’d hardly even worn three different shades of lipstick in her life.
How was she to know when it all began that some day she’d close her eyes in the shower and try not to vomit whenever he crossed her mind?
He’d always been an embarrassment to her, sadly.
The way he dressed, the way he acted when things didn't go his way, the sharp comments he threw at her friends.
He on the other hand, didn’t find her to be an embarrassment: Simply a disobedient young girl that didn’t come home when she should.
Perhaps it wasn’t so strange that dinner and a movie could lead to her lying on the concrete in the dark.
Even in her woozy state every aspect of him repulsed her as he stood over her body.
She knew he’d react badly, and this sort of reaction shouldn’t have taken her by surprise, but a punch to the back of the head isn’t even remotely similar to a real man’s way of dealing with things.
It was no surprise that she couldn’t make head or tail of her mixed-up thoughts.
Though, that was how it was most of the time with him: her confused state forced her to pretend that everything was alright until it all hit her in her fully awake state once again.
Sometimes she secretly wished she could ram the heels of those stilettos he liked her to wear in bed right through his flabby stomach. She’d find those shoes all the more beautiful if she could only do something like that with them.
Maybe if she’d done that sooner, it wouldn’t have been her that would need to be put back together after this cruel night.
She noticed as he grabbed her ankles that he too had red stains around his collar. Although his were more likely attributed to the wine she’d thrown in his face rather than the blood that was trickling down towards her neck.
He believed it was her breaking his heart that had caused him to hurt her.
She could have at least given him a second-second chance, he’d told her.
But she couldn’t help that she didn’t love him, and that a close friend had become a little closer during the times she needed to escape him the most.
She knew he couldn’t really love her now, but for some reason, for all his abusive ways, he didn’t have the guts to kill her.
He was only abusive when no one could see him, she supposed; if he risked leaving a trace, that was enough to scare him off.
Spies liked speculating about suspicious stains and marks, after all.
What the eyes of onlookers didn’t know, was that she’d take French toast over his French kisses any day.
The house was still black inside when he pulled her to the front door. The skin on her shoulders burned a little from being dragged up the path. Her long, thin fingers twitched slightly as she thought of punching him in the stomach, but that would require energy she didn’t have. It didn’t help that a couple of them felt broken from when she’d put out her hand awkwardly to break her fall.
She winced a little as he picked her up, carrying her through the doorway more like a groom would carry his bride than a psychopath would carry his hostage.
That was when she heard the voice.
“How about a beer, eh?”
He dropped her legs as he ripped his pocket knife out of his jeans, leaving her back arched over his left arm for a few seconds before he violently pulled her against him.
She managed a whimper as the figure stepped out into the sliver of light provided by the open door, realising it was the one who had been the subject of this whole poisonous argument.
She predicted she’d be needing a neck rub when this whole thing was over. She was beginning to wonder if perhaps boring and stale wasn’t so bad after all in contrast to this.
She struggled to breathe as his grip tightened under her ribs, “How many months has this been going on then, huh?”
He might have tried to sound tough, but as she said, he was terrified whenever others could see him. The sweat she could feel pressing onto her back and neck was starting to show it.
The figure laughed, “You just don’t get it, do you? Nothing’s been ‘going on,’ Jack, we’re just two friends who know each other a lot better than you’ll ever know anyone.”
“Back the fuck off,” Jack spitted, as she slipped lower and was held in a headlock against his side.
The pain came upon her slowly in the dark.
She wanted nothing more than for her head to be cut clean off; at least then it’d be over quicker. He just felt like he needed to be in control, that was it.
Comments
This actually reminds me of some friends, only they were much less physically violent.