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As I lie here,
clutching my side, the blood trickles down my chin, dripping onto the cold
slate floor.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
I try to figure out
how my life got this way. What I have done so horribly wrong to be living in
hell.
Fresh tears blur my
vision while I listen, making sure the monster I once thought was my loving
husband has left. In the moment everything went wrong, I could barely hear
anything above the sound of my ribs cracking. The ringing in my left ear is
starting to subside, but I’m still unsure if it’s safe to get up.
I have to clean this
blood off the floor before it dries. Tidy house, first and foremost, or he’ll
just get angrier.
I have to figure out
how to leave, get as far away as possible. This time, it has to be more
carefully planned. I need to disappear, but faking my own death won’t work.
I’m Clarissa Ava
Fields, one of the biggest Internet moguls in the United States. I start
web-based companies, grow them until they are large enough to sell, then turn a
big profit. The businesses are not what I want, but I’m good at it.
Spending most of the
day on the computer, I’m able to spare some time to make an important video
call that needs to be done.
I have a whole routine
of things I have to do before I actually can connect the call. This consists of
deactivating the IP address tracker for the other caller and myself. Since I am
sure this house is completely bugged with voice recorders, I wear my headphones
so only I can hear. I also play music as loud as I can without being
suspicious, trying to drown out my words.
The call is to figure
out what steps I need to take in order for me to finally break free. I can’t go
to a meeting anywhere because I know my phone GPS is tracked, and the last
thing I want to do is bring more risk to an already risky place.
I wait for the call to
connect. My legs are shaky, and my fingers hover over the button to disconnect.
Holding out because I know there is nothing I can do without the help from
someone who knows what they are doing.
The call connects, and
I suddenly feel extremely shy, and want to hide.
“Hi, Clarissa. My name
is Susanne, are you alone?” she asks.
“I am, thank you for
taking my call. I don’t know where to start, but I’m sure you are the person I
need to talk to,” I say in a hushed voice.
“I’ve been told about
your situation from Jason, who referred you to call me. If it’s as bad as he
has told me, you really can’t spare much time. I’m aware that you have already
filed multiple restraining orders?” she asks, writing things down on a notepad
in front of her.
“I have, several of
them. They do nothing; they are just pieces of paper. What do I need to do to
get out of here? Every time has been unsuccessful. They always find me.” I keep
my voice down.
“They, who are they?”
“Well, Steven, and his
goons.”
“Ok, so you’re not
only concerned about him finding you, but others too? Do these people have
names?” She continues to write every time I say something.
“I’m sure they do, I
just don’t know what they are.”
“Ok, I’m going to give
you a number to call. You need to call as soon as possible. They will know what
the next best step is for you. I’m going to inform them now about your call,
and hopefully this will be the next and last step for you.”
“That’s it?” My
stomach clenches. “You aren’t going to be able to help me?”
“I’m just here to
figure out what needs to be done, and you need to call that number. I wish you
luck, Clarissa. Bye.” And she abruptly ends the call.
I’m left feeling
confused and hopeless.
After the call it
takes me a moment to snap out of it, I see it’s 9:15. I have to start my daily
chores around the house. My checklist is completely etched into my brain so
nothing is missed. Everything has to be done a certain way. Even the cleaning
solution has to be lemon scented. I once tried to substitute with a citrus
scent. That was met with a blow to side of my face and a warning never to mess
that up again as I mopped the now blood-splattered floor.
Vacuuming has to be
done in a certain pattern of going forward straight, and back in a diagonal
line. This is too much, even for a clean freak like me. I would consider this
one of his marvelous traits of OCD.
After everything is
exactly the way it needs to be, I start making dinner. Steven requests dinner
to be made every night at a specific time. I wait daily for his text to know
the time he will be home so I can have it served and ready for him on the
table.
I usually take this
time as I do my chores and cook, to think back to where everything went wrong.
What made him snap? What was it that I did to make him hate me so much? It’s a
daily struggle to keep trying to find the triggers, learning his behavior,
although it’s never predictable.
I shuffle my feet as
fast as I can, back and forth to and from the kitchen to the dining area,
setting everything, checking my watch several times to make sure everything is
on schedule.
My nerves make me the
clumsiest person around, so I watch every step carefully. Sometimes that
doesn’t even matter.
The door knob rattles,
signaling he is home, and I rush to get the last thing on the table just as he
walks in.
My stomach drops and I
instantly go into my robot wife mode, something I hate. Pretending I’m happy to
be at his beck and call, standing by the table ready to do whatever he needs,
not because I want to.
I’m in survival mode.
“Hi, how was your
day?” I ask as he enters, closing the door behind him.
He walks around and
checks the house, making sure things are in place. Once he approves, he wraps
his arms around me like it’s his God damn given right to touch me after
everything he has put me through. I internally cringe and bile climbs in my
throat.
This is how it is. You
would think I would’ve gotten used to this repulsive feeling by now, but I just
can’t.
“Long. I’m starving. I
have to head out in a little while to meet some clients, but I won’t be gone
too long. So don’t get any crazy ideas,” he warns, and I nod.
We sit down at the
table. I make sure to have a smaller portion on my plate, due to my diminishing
appetite. I spread it around, making it look like it’s full. That’s not a
conversation I ever wish to revisit.
Sadly, I have learned
some tricks to avoid conflict, and make things as peaceful as I can while I am
stuck here.
We eat in deafening
silence, except for the clicking of my jaw as I chew, thanks to a previous blow
to my head. Every bite reminds me of the importance of escaping this hell.
Once we finish, I
quickly get up and remove his plate and start to clean the table off, making
sure every crumb is removed. I reset the table the way it was before, then go
to clean the dishes. I’m on autopilot as I like to check out of life while he
is around.
“I’m going to head
out. Make sure you are good and ready when I get home. Don’t fall asleep on
me,” he whispers in my ear, dragging a finger down my cheek.
I try to keep it
together, swallowing past the lump in my throat. Dread takes over, but I can’t
let him see that.
“Of course. I’ll see
you soon.” I scrub hard on a stubborn dish, crusted sauce smeared in a circle,
hoping if I focus enough it will distract me from thinking about later.
I finish cleaning,
then head to the bedroom and take a long, hot scalding shower. I get the water
as hot as I can, the spray tingling my skin as it hits, showing me that I’m
still alive no matter if I’m dead inside. Once I’m done, I stand in front of
the mirror, trying to find the hidden thing that is wrong with me. I search
every night, but never find it.
My reflection stares
back, nearly unrecognizable. The features are there: my strawberry blonde hair,
lifeless green eyes, and freckled pale skin that shows the dark circles under
my eyes. No sign of life whatsoever.
I open the medicine
cabinet and pop in a pill to make me numb. It’s the only way I can manage to
get through this night. I pace the floor, waiting for the door to click open so
I can get this over with.
Time drags for what
seems forever, and I wait. Sitting on the edge of the bed, flipping through a
magazine, trying to keep myself awake. It’s getting late, and I’m barely able
to hold my eyes open any longer. I sit back with my head against the pillow,
thinking of things I can do to get out of this life. My eyelids flutter closed
and I eventually doze off.
The front door slams
shut, jolting me out of my sleep, followed by a slew of curse words. I quickly
sit up, hoping I don’t look like I was sleeping, and attempt to not shake, but
fear wins out this time. I’m trembling, wondering what has happened, not
because I care, but because whatever did, just sealed my fate for the night.
He comes barreling
through the bedroom door and stands there staring at me. This is going to be a sparring
match once again. Those usually consist of me ducking or dodging many swings
until he finally connects, leaving me dazed and unable to protect myself.
Flashes of my living
nightmare start playing in my head, which makes the monster in him stand out
even clearer.
Fighting for my life
was something I never imagined I would be doing daily. I wish every day my
parents lived out here. They are the kind of people who would drop by
unannounced. Maybe, just maybe, they would be able to help me, but it’s to the
point where I am in so deep, there is nothing they would be able to do. I
refuse to tell them, fearing that dragging them in would only make things
worse, and dangerous for them. I know my phones are tapped, so there’s no way
now for me to tell them carefully.
I’ve waited too long.
The system infuriates
me; the laws that are supposed to keep me safe and free have kept me captive,
fighting to stay alive.
I have always been a
strong individual: graduated a year early, moved out and went to college halfway
across the country all on my own, providing for myself. I haven’t had to ask my
parents for money since I started my first company.
The random times I do
get to talk to them, they tell me how proud of me they are, and the shame I
feel is just as bad as the way I am living. The lies start to overlap and I
forget what I have told them, as my mind is never fully in the conversation.
All they seem to want to know is when we’re going to give them grandkids, the
thought of that now makes me sick to my stomach.
“Are you even
listening to me?” Steven snaps at me, startling me from my thoughts.
“Yes, I’m sorry,” I
say, hoping I won’t get asked what he just said, because I didn’t hear a damn
word.
“This is exactly your
problem right here: You’re so wrapped up in your own head that you forget when
people are talking to you. You’re lucky I married you, because nobody else
would put up with this crap,” he spits, his tone getting angrier with each
word.
“I said I was sorry.
It won’t happen again.” I try to stay calm.
“You know what? Go to
bed. I don’t want to talk to you right now, and I certainly don’t want to touch
you.” He storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
He has these fits a
lot, so by now I shouldn’t jump when the door slams, but old habits don’t die.
I don’t think I will ever get used to it, the second he leaves the room, my
muscles relax a bit.
I get as comfortable
as I can with my nerves on edge, counting backwards to lull myself back to
sleep. It’s proving difficult as all I can do is wait for him to come barreling
through the door again, looking for a living punching bag.
After a while I
finally relax a bit and drift off, knowing this day is over. I’m one day closer
to getting out of here.
