This wasn't the first time he had put his hands on me. There have been several. Yet, like a dumb ass, I kept taking him back because he would promise to never do it again. And though I knew that he was lying, I'd convince myself that he wasn't just because I loved him and held on to memories of what things used to be before he had started drinking heavily.
Clyde was an abusive alcoholic who refused to get help, claiming he could stop any time he wanted. All alcoholics say that — just like all abusers say they didn't mean it. A combination of both can be deadly, for them and their victim.
I stood in front of the bathroom sink, looking into the mirror at a woman that I no longer recognized. As much as I hated him for what he was doing to me, the love that I had seemed to overpower it all. I pressed the warm towel against my bloody lips, wincing at the pain. Regardless of how many times he would beat me, I was still as shocked as the first time it happened. If he loves me, why does he hurt me? That was one that I couldn't quite figure out. Watching my father put his hands on my mother made it all seem normal. Like this was supposed to be what relationships were about. Like I had to accept it. Part of me wanted to leave, but I couldn't. It was mixture of reasons, one was I love him and another was I was too afraid to. He had always told me that if I tried to leave, he'd kill me. And I knew that he meant it because he has killed before.
