Word Count 100
The taxi was finally here. My bags are packed. I know I am leaving a lot behind, but I need to get out. I can’t live with the violence anymore. The coming home late and pissed, then the shouting, things getting broken. The children asleep, or pretending to be, upstairs. I can’t handle them being afraid anymore.
So I am leaving. He has told me many a time to leave. He and the children will be better off without me if I was to continue drinking. I left a note. First stop Central, then detox. I WILL be well again.
- Domestic violence is never ok. I wanted to write a story that reflected that, but I wanted to highlight the mostly hidden domestic violence scenario of the man being abused, and the woman being the abuser. This does not discount that mostly it is women who are on the receiving end of that abuse.
I have written two responses to the above challenge. One dark, deep and sad. The other not so. The second I view as a Victorian young lady, or perhaps I am being influenced by a Clint Eastwood Western I saw yesterday, as a young woman fit to be married, in the early pioneering days of America.
But read as you will. I am just the author and not in control of your imagination. I just steer occasionally.
I spray mirrors around my house with white paint. I avoid going near still bodies of water, plate glass windows, and even keep the sheen on my cookware and cutlery low. I wear a niqab but I am not Islamic. After my husband attacked me, I wish never to see my deformed ugly face again. I wish this life would hurry and be over.
When I looked, I could not see my outward reflection, but how others saw me. Is there a difference? Indeed. Sometimes subtle but nonetheless real. How I wish to be perceived, is not always the same as how I was received. I shall try harder to reflect, not only the light airy self, but the colourful swirls that are my emotions, feelings and thoughts.