It started out as any other day, and ended as the one that changed me. For life.
I went out for dinner, pretty and happy. Probably the last dinner we would have. He was shifting to another place far away, the next day. I wouldn’t be able to go out with him that late after that. He was unusually silent, and I tried to lighten him up. It didn’t work, so I let him be. I figured he would open up once we started eating. We ordered the dishes and were waiting. He asked for my phone. I gave it to him without a question. He didn’t like some things he saw. It triggered him. He started questioning me, scaring me. We left the food uneaten.
He gave me the keys and asked me to drive. I protested, but gave in. Everything went downhill from there. I eased the car on to the road, and drove a short distance, when the first blow came. First for that day. It had happened before, once or twice, so I didn’t react. I thought he would calm down if I didn’t say anything back. But I couldn’t have been more wrong. The blows kept coming, and at one point, the car swerved. He made me park it on the side of the road. We swapped places. The hitting still didn’t end.
Throughout the way back home, he kept screaming at me and hitting me. My head, my face, my arms. He pulled at my hair. I was screaming too. Screaming in pain, as tears poured and poured. Trying to speak. Begging him to stop, my palms together in front of me. I could hardly get a word out. As we neared home, he stopped the car on a dark road, upon my asking. I didn’t want to go home in tears, I wanted to talk and solve it. Little did I know what a wrong move it was.
Stopping the car just made it easier for him to go on with his assault. I lost the capacity to think. I didn’t know how to react. I didn’t think of hitting him back even once. All I remember now is complete darkness, hearing him and myself screaming, me curled up on the back seat, my left arm and leg as my shield. I remember one blow landing on my eye. I would later find it swollen and bleeding internally. At that time, I was so shocked, I couldn’t think of a single thing. He had never hit me more than once at a time before. Hell, nobody had ever hit me other than him before. Not even my parents.
He had knowingly hurt me that day, physically. He begged and begged me after that, apologising and wanting me back, calling me his life, saying he’ll never do it again. But the hurt went much deeper than just my skin. Now, I will never be able to think of us and be happy. I will never look at him the same way. I am scared of getting hurt again. What if another relationship turns out to be even worse?
It’s been a week and a half now. But the horror still remains fresh in my mind. Every night, I relive the pain, the fear. I weep for the times well spent. But I burn for all the anguish I felt. I have closed up, the walls around me more firmly set than ever. When I think of that day, it is all red. The red that symbolises passionate love and danger. To me, it will always scream “DANGER!!!”.
The scars on my skin may heal, but the ones inside never will.