Fated From The Start

8

TW!! Mention of physical and mental abuse

Madeline-

Holy shit.

We just fucked in a dressing room in the manor that I grew up in, with my parents in the main room. And our engagement party less than one hundred-fifty feet away.

Holy shit.

Malcolm is still breathing heavily, resting his forehead on my chest. I can feel him smile against me and press a light kiss to my shoulder, a large contrast to the rough kisses he's just littered all over the upper parts of my body. My neck is covered in love-bites I'm sure, and I know my breasts are spotted like a cheetah. I have no idea how we're going to get out of here unnoticed.

Honestly, I don't even know what got into me to let this happen, it's so unlike me. After Jeremy, my first and only boyfriend, I was so untrusting of everyone that I kind of just folded into myself and away from everyone else. I didn't go on dates, wasn't interested in anyone, and even if I was, I was too afraid to do anything about it.

Having a boyfriend who tells you he loves you while he hits you is hard enough, but having to hear him befriend my parents even after they saw the bruises was something I could never endure again. 

Jeremy was the type of man who was perfect at first sight, and then never prefect again once you looked a little closer. Suddenly his bright blue eyes didn't appear friendly or welcoming. They appeared malicious and frightening, especially when he was watching my every move. His hands no longer seemed warm for me to hold or to keep me safe, instead they became a new weapon for me to shield myself from, a new threat every time he touched me. His smile looked menacing, and his laugh was like a siren blaring in my head, a warning sign that things would be ruined again between us by the end of the night.

I didn't realize what was happening was abuse until I was at the library one day and a woman interrogated me, asking me where I had got the bruises. I managed to convince her I'd just fallen down the stairs, but I saw the way she looked at me with pity. I wonder if she recognized the fear in my eyes, noticed the way I'd started to breathe heavier at the thought of being punished for telling someone what Jeremy was doing behind closed doors.

That same night, I googled signs of domestic and physical abuse, and Jeremy could've been a model for the campaign. I read about how abusers would usually buy gifts to apologize for their actions while scanning our bedroom, and realized that almost all of the gifts he'd ever gotten me had been after a beating. At first things were great, he was kind and caring. He'd show up at my apartment with flowers and teddy bears. I really thought I'd hit the jackpot.

Then the arguments started.

It was only some yelling, I could take it.

It was only a slap, he'd apologized right after, and promised he'd never do it again.

It was only a bruise, I could cover it with clothes and makeup.

It was only a punch, he hid it on my stomach so no one would see.

It was only ever a hit, a slap, a punch, or an argument. Until it was me, telling him things were over.

It took me three years to get in and out of the relationship with Jeremy, and it'd only taken me three years to be scarred forever. We started dating when I was nineteen, and even now that I'm twenty-three, I still get triggered by certain things. The flashbacks aren't nearly as frequent, but I'd be lying if I said they didn't still happen.

When I told my parents that I ended things with him, they told me they were disappointed for losing such a respectable man, no boyfriend of mine would ever be that polite again. When I drove back to my place that night, I sobbed harder than I ever cried over one of Jeremy's hits.