Rear-view Mirror
In the beginning the marriage was happy, joyous. A devoted husband I thought I would find in Tim. Thoughtful, loving and passionate, he swept me off my feet. The first months of our married life were idyllic until my first error in judgement. A wrong glance, an incorrect word rewarded me with a physical retort. The pulling of hair or a slap to the face was the punishment in the beginning. As my breaking of the unspoken rules continued, the beatings became more frequent and the punishment more severe.
I learned to hide the signs with clothing or make-up. The particularly bad days I stayed home, which was often in recent times. I shiver as I recall the vision of my face after the first fist bruised my eye and bloodied my lip. I barely recognised the reflection.
I couldn’t breathe when Tim’s hands surrounded my throat as he spat out his anger in a restrained, steady voice. I barely remember the reason that I ended up with finger bruises on my neck and what I could only guess were broken ribs. I think it was after a work dinner, a perceived lingering glance at Tim’s colleague, which then entailed a hand holding me down as he dealt out his jealous rage.
His apology followed with flowers and amorous affection. How could I forgive the beating I endured? The man I loved, I cherished, who I thought cherished me, pounded and strangled love from my heart. I stayed because of the fear. His threats of what he would do were I to leave, disabled me.
I thought after the birth of our darling boy three years ago that things might have changed. We had a beautiful miracle in our house now; perhaps Tim would be pleased. For a short time he was. What a beautiful family we were. I performed the ultimate, produced a son, now I could do no wrong. Until my darling Alex would cry, sulk or squeal with excitement. Control the boy, he would say, I can’t think with the noise. I took to spending my nights on the floor, at first by his cot, and then the bed, to ensure Alex’ nocturnal routine didn’t wake my sleeping husband.
My friends stopped calling when I cancelled on their invitations, a bruise or a fat lip ensured visiting became impossible. I pacified my family with excuses for my absence and distance in their life. How would I explain? Fear and loathing became my only companions in my prison which was my home.
A particularly brutal beating a few days before caused me to see things clearer. A life of solitude for nearly five years wore away at my soul. I became wise as I swallowed down the pain, the terror. My life, for Alex, needed to change, how long before he became the target of the wraith that lived inside his father? It became time to emancipate myself from the life I suffered.
I packed the bags this morning in preparation. I planned to leave while Tim was at work, escape and flee. The sound of a car in the driveway interrupted my final preparations and the key in the front door forced me to throw our belongings under the bed. Alex played quietly on the floor with his trains as I rushed to meet Tim. Why home today for lunch? How could he know?
“What a surprise to see you home,” I said.
“I have come home for lunch before.” His voice held suspicion I needed to quell.
His expression a warning of what could be to come sent my heart in a flurry.
“I know, Tim, but you haven’t done it for a while.”
“What are you hiding?” His eyes narrowed and the vein pulsing at his temple alerted me to his growing fury.
“Nothing.” The slight quiver in my voice gave me away.
The first blow should be predictable after all this time. The swift, hard, open handed slap that stings from cheek to jaw.
“What are you hiding?”
“Please, Tim...”
His hand shot up fast and the breath rushed from my lungs as I hit the wall behind me. A hand at my throat held me hard against the wall. The punch forced my head back with a resounding crack sending stars flying before my eyes. The world swirled. I tasted blood trickling from my nose. I forced my eyes to clear, for Alex in the next room. Staying conscious for my little boy became my only priority.
Tim let go of my throat and pushed me to the floor. A swift kick to my stomach caused the bile to rise. As the blows continued, I thought of escape. This was the last time. What if one night he hit too hard, squeezed my throat too long? I couldn’t leave my little boy with the devil.
Once his onslaught abated he demanded his lunch, which I made with shaky hands. Tim kissed me when he left for the office, as though nothing had occurred. It was after all my fault or so he would tell me.
The time was now, we needed to leave. The face which stared back at me this time frightened even me. A battered mess, defiled. I formulated a plan and decided it would be best to leave while Tim slept. A long head start would be what I needed. If I were to leave in the afternoon, he would follow me to my retreat, the moment he returned from work. My refuge a three hour drive would not be completed in time.
The flower arrangement in the form of apology was bigger than any before. His seemingly sincere words of forgiveness fuelled my need to leave. So as Tim snored, I carried my little man to the car.
I watch my home fade from sight. I have at last escaped. We have escaped. I glance behind me to see Alex sleeping soundly and let out an unsteady breath. Would we now be safe? The decision to run was the right one for my sweet three year old angel whose mouth hung open slightly as he slumbered.
Now as I drive away in the darkness and touch a hand to my swollen lip, my courage begins to build. As I pull into my parent’s street, my relief swells.
Tears sting my eyes as I walk up the path. The door opens and my mother gasps. My father standing behind her knows instinctively to go to the car and retrieve Alex. As she pulls me into an embrace, tears of fear, relief and unrestrained joy flows in rivers down my cheeks. Our life starts now I have you in my rear-view mirror.
I learned to hide the signs with clothing or make-up. The particularly bad days I stayed home, which was often in recent times. I shiver as I recall the vision of my face after the first fist bruised my eye and bloodied my lip. I barely recognised the reflection.
I couldn’t breathe when Tim’s hands surrounded my throat as he spat out his anger in a restrained, steady voice. I barely remember the reason that I ended up with finger bruises on my neck and what I could only guess were broken ribs. I think it was after a work dinner, a perceived lingering glance at Tim’s colleague, which then entailed a hand holding me down as he dealt out his jealous rage.
His apology followed with flowers and amorous affection. How could I forgive the beating I endured? The man I loved, I cherished, who I thought cherished me, pounded and strangled love from my heart. I stayed because of the fear. His threats of what he would do were I to leave, disabled me.
I thought after the birth of our darling boy three years ago that things might have changed. We had a beautiful miracle in our house now; perhaps Tim would be pleased. For a short time he was. What a beautiful family we were. I performed the ultimate, produced a son, now I could do no wrong. Until my darling Alex would cry, sulk or squeal with excitement. Control the boy, he would say, I can’t think with the noise. I took to spending my nights on the floor, at first by his cot, and then the bed, to ensure Alex’ nocturnal routine didn’t wake my sleeping husband.
My friends stopped calling when I cancelled on their invitations, a bruise or a fat lip ensured visiting became impossible. I pacified my family with excuses for my absence and distance in their life. How would I explain? Fear and loathing became my only companions in my prison which was my home.
A particularly brutal beating a few days before caused me to see things clearer. A life of solitude for nearly five years wore away at my soul. I became wise as I swallowed down the pain, the terror. My life, for Alex, needed to change, how long before he became the target of the wraith that lived inside his father? It became time to emancipate myself from the life I suffered.
I packed the bags this morning in preparation. I planned to leave while Tim was at work, escape and flee. The sound of a car in the driveway interrupted my final preparations and the key in the front door forced me to throw our belongings under the bed. Alex played quietly on the floor with his trains as I rushed to meet Tim. Why home today for lunch? How could he know?
“What a surprise to see you home,” I said.
“I have come home for lunch before.” His voice held suspicion I needed to quell.
His expression a warning of what could be to come sent my heart in a flurry.
“I know, Tim, but you haven’t done it for a while.”
“What are you hiding?” His eyes narrowed and the vein pulsing at his temple alerted me to his growing fury.
“Nothing.” The slight quiver in my voice gave me away.
The first blow should be predictable after all this time. The swift, hard, open handed slap that stings from cheek to jaw.
“What are you hiding?”
“Please, Tim...”
His hand shot up fast and the breath rushed from my lungs as I hit the wall behind me. A hand at my throat held me hard against the wall. The punch forced my head back with a resounding crack sending stars flying before my eyes. The world swirled. I tasted blood trickling from my nose. I forced my eyes to clear, for Alex in the next room. Staying conscious for my little boy became my only priority.
Tim let go of my throat and pushed me to the floor. A swift kick to my stomach caused the bile to rise. As the blows continued, I thought of escape. This was the last time. What if one night he hit too hard, squeezed my throat too long? I couldn’t leave my little boy with the devil.
Once his onslaught abated he demanded his lunch, which I made with shaky hands. Tim kissed me when he left for the office, as though nothing had occurred. It was after all my fault or so he would tell me.
The time was now, we needed to leave. The face which stared back at me this time frightened even me. A battered mess, defiled. I formulated a plan and decided it would be best to leave while Tim slept. A long head start would be what I needed. If I were to leave in the afternoon, he would follow me to my retreat, the moment he returned from work. My refuge a three hour drive would not be completed in time.
The flower arrangement in the form of apology was bigger than any before. His seemingly sincere words of forgiveness fuelled my need to leave. So as Tim snored, I carried my little man to the car.
I watch my home fade from sight. I have at last escaped. We have escaped. I glance behind me to see Alex sleeping soundly and let out an unsteady breath. Would we now be safe? The decision to run was the right one for my sweet three year old angel whose mouth hung open slightly as he slumbered.
Now as I drive away in the darkness and touch a hand to my swollen lip, my courage begins to build. As I pull into my parent’s street, my relief swells.
Tears sting my eyes as I walk up the path. The door opens and my mother gasps. My father standing behind her knows instinctively to go to the car and retrieve Alex. As she pulls me into an embrace, tears of fear, relief and unrestrained joy flows in rivers down my cheeks. Our life starts now I have you in my rear-view mirror.