When I was 19 I thought I was was in love. His name was Michael. Fresh out of prison, covered in tattoos with eyes the color of a summer sky. I don't remember the first time he hit me but I remember the last time. This isn't the story of that last time however.
One particular memory of Michael and I replays itself often in my head. Mostly when I'm trying to sleep, sometimes when I'm alone and lonely. I stayed for 3 years and moved with him dozens of times between Kentucky and Indiana. When were always fighting and never seemed to have a place to securely lay our heads at night. When I told him how scared I was of him, how much he hurt me, how much I wanted to go home he would erupt in anger and threaten to kill my family. Knowing how much hatred he had in his heart I fully believed he would. I stopped asking to go home and just took to sleeping all day. Dreaming of dying.
The memory that haunts me was the first time I was certain he was going to kill me. We had been living in Indiana for close to 3 months with his brother and sister in law, along with their 3 young kids and numerous smelly little dogs. Every day Mike and I escaped the stinky little house and chilled with his cousin Joey and Joey's girlfriend. They lived in a huge upstairs apartment right above the police station. They had a roommate named Guy who was a laid back long haired hippie dude.
Times were fun, stress free and full of good bud. All day and every day. We would hang out over there,smoke and play Madden. After one particular event free evening Michael and I walked back across the road to go back to his brothers house and he's joking and laughing saying I liked Guy, Joeys roomie. I immediately knew that something was up because the joking and laughing type Michael was not. I said no I don't like him where did you come up with that. By this time we were in front of his brothers house standing beside our ugly red Ford Taurus. Michael looks down at me with a strange twisted smile and punches me full force in the stomach.
I crumpled right to the ground, gasping for a breath of air while he kicks me repeatedly in the back with his steel toed boots. I remember then him dragging me in the car and speeding off down a dark country road, all the while punching me anywhere he could while still maintaining to hold the steering wheel. He stopped suddenly and pulled the car over and kicked me out on the road. Told me to run my nigger ass somewhere and never come back. Then he drove away.
I'm sitting at the side of the road surrounded on both sides by corn fields and endless country. No one to help me and no resuce in site. Barely breathing and covered in blood. Eyes full of tears. I stayed there like a scolded puppy and waited for him to come back. He did about 30 minutes later and told me to get in, like nothing happened. And I did. Because I had no choice, no voice. I still think about this when I am alone.
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