The Last Day

6 AM. 6 AM. She just needed to wait for 6 AM. She kept repeating it to herself, over and over again, as she watched the clock and willed time to move faster. It was 4:16, and she was laying on the couch pretending to sleep peacefully after yet another long night of screaming and crying. She couldn’t remember the last time she had a reprieve from it, it all seemed to blur together into one long nightmare. The evidence of his outburst still scattered the apartment, a chair overturned here, dinner plates still sitting on the table, and broken plastic from the bottle of lotion he hurled at her head like a missile. It was almost comical, really, if she could look past how utterly terrifying it was. Why the bottle of lotion, out of any other weapon? It wasn’t the first time something was thrown, but it did seem to be the funniest object out of any she could think of right there and then, running off of adrenaline and no sleep.

She just kept glancing from the clock to the picture frame next to the congealing splatters of lotion on the wall. She looked so happy there, so unaware of what the man standing next to her would evolve into. It wasn’t always like this, isn’t that how every story goes? Girl meets boy, boy love bombs her and leads her into a false sense of security, girl thinks it’s true love and is blindly, totally swept off of her feet. Eventually, as always, the cracks start to show. Small methods of control sprinkled between the adoration, a “you can’t wear that” or “you can’t talk to them” swept under the rug with gifts and affection. She wonders at what point her brain stopped picking up on it, at what point was she so under his spell that these things slipped past her. She remembers how utterly dumbfounded she was the first time he raised a hand to her, how shocking it was. But was it really all that shocking? No, a small part of her knew it would get here. It was just a matter of time. And now here she was, 3 years later, waiting for 6 AM for him to go to work and her to make her escape. To run away from the monster upstairs and that smiling girl in the picture frame who had so much hope, so many dreams of the wonderful life they’d share.

He’s awake now, she can hear him moving around upstairs, getting ready for his 24 hour shift, totally unaware of her careful plotting. And it had to be careful, it had to be PERFECT. He bugged her phone at some point, she’s not sure when or how, but she’s just thankful she figured it out. Who would have thought she’d ever have to write an email to her parents on her work computer, begging them to show up on this exact day at exactly 6:30 AM to help her get the hell out. She can hear him start to come down the stairs, the same stairs he pushed her down 2 weeks earlier, and tenses. Mentally communicating with her dogs to just stay down, stay quiet, please don’t act like you’re ready to defend me because if you do, he’s going to hurt you again and oh we are so so close to getting out of here, I promise you. She shuts her eyes, blocking out that smiling, beautiful, innocent girl in that picture and pretending to be deep in sleep, not at all terrified of him. It’s just another day, after all. She feels his lips touch her forehead, and fights her body to not react. Don’t be tense, don’t flinch, please don’t throw up even though you want to. Finally, blessedly, the front door slams shut. She stays there for a period of time, she’s unsure how long because her eyes are still shut and she’s praying, begging he does not come back to check if she’s truly asleep. Eventually, she opens her eyes. 6:15 AM. Is he gone? Please be gone.She checks his location, and he’s already halfway to work. Her time is now.

She runs around the apartment like a hurricane, yanking open drawers and grabbing handfuls of her clothes, running up and down the stairs past that stupid, stupid girl in the picture looking down at her with handfuls of her necessities. Just the essentials, you need nothing else. She hears a car door slam and starts to panic, dashing for her phone to check his location again. He made it to work. She’s safe, and she’s willing that that car door was her fathers. It was, and he’s at the front door now and she’s running to him and then the tears start, so many tears and so little time to feel the true, bone deep pain that she knows she will have to face soon. The car is packed with an air of frantic energy, her dogs are ushered in and comforted because they too are afraid, and confused. She runs back in to do a quick sweep of the house, make sure there is nothing essential left behind. She stops and looks at that girl in the picture one more time. She doesn’t deserve to stay here either, she can’t leave her behind. She’s just a child. Ripping the frame from the wall, she peels off the backing and removes the picture, tearing it in 2. You’re coming with me, my love, she thinks. You don’t have to stay here either. We are going to be safe, you’ll see.