Her eyes opened. It was dark. Darker than dark. She knew better than to look at the clock, she already knew. She stared into the darkness, waiting for her eyes to acclimate to any tiny slice of light that might be hiding in the darkness. There was none. Just blackness. The thoughts that had greeted her, upon awakening, were strange. Why, after all these years? She tried to grasp any trailing gossamer thread, of an old web, of sleep, that might have been filtering through the air. None was to be found. She rolled over to look at the clock. The clock hands glowed in the dark. 3:00 a.m. That reality was not a shock.
Why now? It had been years. Decades. But, the visual was just as vivid.
The first time it happened, she was the perfect victim. Wondering what in the hell she had done to deserve it. He hit her. It wasn't bad, just a couple of scuffs and shoves. That was her rationale.
The second time, she should have known better. Again, if she had only not said anything, all would have been fine. He grabbed her by her hair. He pulled her from the couch and began to swing her around the room. By her hair. All she had on was a tee shirt and panties. When he tired of this, he gave her a flip and somehow, she landed on the grate. The grate belonged to the floor furnace, the only thing that heated the small house. It was hot. Hot enough to leave seared, charred, marks on the backs of her thighs. Her backside looked like the neighbor's charcoal grill. She should have kept her mouth shut.
The third time was the worst. She thought maybe, just maybe, she might die. He sat on her chest, her arms pinned under his legs. He had lured her into this position. She did not see it coming. Suddenly, he began to hit her. He slapped her, as hard as he could, with both hands. The blows landed at her temples. Her face wore a halo of bruises, from ear to ear, across her forehead. They lasted for several days. Had he used his fists......she decided not to think about that.
The last time. It always seemed to start because she had said something that made him mad. That part was probably true. It usually started with her asking, "Where the hell have you been?". He stormed across the kitchen, furious. His arms were already flailing. She threw her arms over her head, for protection. He began to hit her. Again. She tried to back up, but then she spotted something on the floor. Slightly under the kitchen table. It was a six inch piece of a philodendron. A plant that she had cared for, watered, had a special attachment to. There it was. Injured. Broken. Wasted.
She rose up from her cowered position. She hit him as hard as she could, with an open palm. The blow sent him under the kitchen table, with the broken vine. Looking back, she always wished she had doubled up her fist. Knowing that the battle was not over, she ran to the front room. The same room that held the char-broil floor grill. She hit the couch like a freight train and got into position. Back against the couch. Legs and arms in fight mode. He ran at her.
She kicked him, as hard as she could. He still kept coming. She kicked again. Suddenly, he had his arms wrapped around her head. She thought they were moving towards her throat. They were. As his arms passed by the front of her face, she knew there was only one thing left to do. She bit him. She bit him so hard that she felt as if it would end with a chunk of human flesh in her mouth. Then, a miracle happened. He gave up. His excuse. He was just trying to calm her down. Sure. Right. From that point forward, he never laid a hand on her again.
Did she leave. No. She thought her love could save him from the path he was going down. But, she came to understand that it didn't matter. It didn't matter what she did. She would never be what he wanted. In order to be what he wanted, she would have to change. She would have to be someone she was not. That understanding, as heartbreaking as it was, was the beginning to finding herself.
She learned that she had put more importance into a six inch piece of plant, than she had ever put into herself. It was not easy. It did not happen overnight. But, it was the starting point to a new beginning.
She can still see that strand of philodendron, laying on the floor. Its heartfelt message, most likely, saved her life.
