I Was Going to Die.
I couldn’t even finish my thought, let alone my sentence. Larry woke up swinging, his fists hitting me square in the face over and over again. My poem flew from my hands, my head fell back, then bounced forward again like a ball on a spring.
I tried to speak, but there was no time. I tried to hide, but there was nowhere to go. The punches came fast and hard, Larry pounding me like a punching bag, chanting “you fuckin’ bitch” like it was his new mantra. WHAM!-“you fuckin’-bitch”-WHAM!-“you-fuckin’-bitch”-WHAM! Over and over and over.
I finally ducked under his fists long enough to throw myself down face-first on the bed. I covered my head with my arms and tried to roll into a fetal position, but I felt Larry’s full weight land on my back.
His hands wrapped around my neck. Larry started to choke the life out of me. I tried to crawl away, wriggling and flailing and trying to pull up onto my knees but Larry was heavier and much, much stronger than me. I couldn’t get away.
Larry squeezed harder and tighter, as though I needed more punishment to fully comprehend his message. “You-fuckin-cunt-fuckin-whore-you-fuckin-bitch-you-fuckin….” He started shaking me, my occluded mouth open, my head smacking into the mattress.
I couldn’t respond; I couldn’t even gasp for air. My neck felt like a pencil about to snap.
I tried bucking him off of me but succeeded only in sliding horizontally underneath him while Larry continued to suffocate me, my eyes wide and panicked, my face shoved back into the mattress.
I was going to die and there was nothing I could do about it, so I gave up.
I stopped moving; my body went limp.
That’s when Larry let go, climbed off my back, and stood up.
I gasped, inhaled the mattress and coughed painfully as I rolled over. I looked up at him through swollen-shut eyes, my face bloody, my breath shaky, my throat thin, bruised and fragile.
Larry stood over me, wild-eyed and glaring. “What the fuck are you doing?” he spat.
It took a moment to remember what I’d done.
“I wanted to read you my poem,” I gag-whispered.
“I was fuckin’ sleeping!” Larry said, as though I hadn’t noticed.
I flashed back to one of our first nights together – the night our neighbor stopped by at 3 a.m.; Larry had instinctively grabbed a chain and wrapped it around his arm to greet our visitor. He awoke ready to fight.
The attempted murder was probably my fault for waking Larry.
Larry was so pumped full of adrenaline, he didn’t even flinch. He certainly didn’t ask to hear my poem.
Finally he seemed fully awake for the first time. “I’ve gotta get the fuck outta here,” he said. Larry pulled on his jeans and boots.
My head swam and pounded; I stared breathlessly as he started for the stairs leading to the front door. In spite of insane amounts of alcohol in my system, suddenly I felt sober and hysterically clear.
If Larry leaves, I thought, I will have no one. And then I’ll really have no reason to live.
Suddenly I felt like an uncaged animal.
“Fuck you!” I said. “You’re not fucking leaving! I’m leaving! And I’m not using the fucking door!”
“Fuck you!” Larry yelled back. But he paused, briefly, at the top of the stairs and watched as I stormed into the kitchen, where there was no door.
There was only a window.