“Patience and Silence had one beautiful daughter. And her name was Vengeance.”
Amie Kaufman
I had had enough.
For my entire life, beginning in infancy, I had been a victim. From the slaps I'd received when I cried as a newborn to the punches I endured as an adult woman, I had accepted the abuse as something I must have deserved, though I never could understand why that was so. My earliest memories were of being told what a rotten kid I was. Later I was referred to as bitch, whore, and cunt. Many times before I even knew what those words meant.
But eighteen months ago I suddenly realized that I had had enough. I was fed up with the beatings and the verbal abuse, and the brutal, soul-destroying rapes when my husband decided he wanted to “make love,” and I wasn't going to take them any longer.
Several times I tried to run away. I almost made it that last time, but just like those other times he somehow found the shelter where I had taken refuge. No one could ever figure out how. So he'd drag me back, beat me to within an inch of my life, rape me just to show me he could, then go on his merry way. But that time, the fire bad been lit. Little did he know that he held the match, and I was a stick of unstable dynamite.
After that failed last escape I was determined not to come back. Whatever it took, I was not coming back.
I bided my time, and it was on February 14th , of last year, Valentine's Day, when I finally claimed my freedom.
I hated every Valentine's Day. Playing the devoted spouse to the hilt, he'd always buy a dozen roses. Cheap roses that hadn't had the thorns removed. Then he'd do the “romantic” thing and spread them out on our carefully made up bed. I was made to wear the skimpy lingerie he'd buy for me. Lingerie that exposed much more than it covered. I was forced, pleading for mercy to climb onto the bed where he would brutalize me atop those roses as the thorns viciously tore into my skin, all the time declaring how much he loved me. Declaring again and again that I belonged to him and that our blood would be forever mingled. Funny thing was, he never bled. Looking back, I don't think he could have understood how ironic it was that I was the only one who bled. That our blood and souls would never be as one. That the only blood spilled each Valentine's Day, was my own, and I would eventually reclaim every symbolic drop.
Because Valentine's Day of last year was the day I had chosen to end the terror. When I separated us, forever.
The day had been surreal. I knew what he expected when he arrived home from work. He always expected the house to be spotless. He was rabid about it always being spotless. He expected me to be my usual submissive, vapid self. He expected me to change into whatever whore's clothes he forced on me. He expected me to show my appreciation for the roses as he spread them on his bed. He expected me to acquiesce with little more than a whimper.
This time he expected in error, because I had had enough.
I allowed myself to be led upstairs to the bedroom. I dressed in the virginal white corset, g-string, fishnet hose, and brand new stilettos he'd purchased and had wrapped in romantic paper. I watched silently as he bent over the bed, spreading the blood red roses across the white duvet. So confident in his power over me was he that he never considered the danger in turning his back on me. Until I had quietly said his name.
I like to think his ghost lingered long enough to see my arms drop with his own .357 held tightly in my hands. Long enough to fully appreciate the small smile of satisfaction that gently curled my lips, and belied the cold fury in my eyes. Oh yes. I hope he lingered long enough to see all of that before he made his way to hell.
I never tried to deny what I had done. As he lay dead, bleeding as much in that moment as I had since my birth, I had used his own cell phone to call the police. I told them what I had done and, no, I was no longer armed. As I had so often done for him, I meekly allowed myself to be restrained. Unlike with him, I didn't beg for mercy. I allowed the scars, old and new, that covered my body to speak for themselves. The woman who cuffed me did so with care. She knew what those scars meant, and though she could never say she agreed, it was clear she understood.
Supporters pooled the funds to hire a top notch defense attorney for me. The prosecution never stood a chance when the jury was shown pictures of the scars and when they learned of my history of emergency room visits. When they heard the litany of broken bones and stitches that I'd gained falling down stairs, or been clumsy enough to fall against the many surfaces in our house. They listened carefully as a psychologist explained why women didn't simply choose to become abused, or why they stayed with their abuser. Some had glared when the prosecutor tried to convince them I'd killed for no reason other than the insurance money. No, the opposition never stood a snowball's chance.
I was convicted of the much less serious charge of voluntary manslaughter and given a suspended sentence. The first thing I did was get my GED, because I'd never been allowed to finish high school. Shortly thereafter, I enrolled in college and began the first classes that will eventually lead me to law school. In the meanwhile, I am a volunteer for the very organizations that had sought to help me before I'd finally had enough. And I speak of my experience to crowds of people, mostly women, who come to hear me remember. I like to believe that in sharing my history, I'm saving young women from falling into the trap of spousal abuse.
And all of that began the night I'd finally had enough.
A well planned and hard hitting story of one woman who got out of the psycho of abuse.
I'm pleased that so many women are now finding the courage to go after political figures who have abused them without recourse. The times, they are a changing.
Ron
Unfortunately, the first thing that I was attracted to was the cleavage on the picture. But I'm a man, and it's one of my failings. The last thing I looked at was the gun.
Pecked to Death offers a refreshing perspective on managing the chaos of everyday life, encouraging you to take control and prioritize what truly matters.
