My red high heels

Thinking

Now

Afterwards I can't remember what I was sorry for. If I was sorry for talking to that guy in the first place, or interrupting him. Maybe I was sorry for falling when he punched me. Or maybe my mind was already sorry for what it knew was gonna happened, the real reason to why I was standing here.

Will Lawrence. Slowly I bent forward ,caressing the engraved stone letters, my umbrella pouring a little stream of cold water down my back. Will Lawrence, a man who knew exactly how to steal peoples hearts. A man who sounded so innocent, all full of good intent. Of course no one thought that he would hurt anybody. It was actually easier that way, no one questioned my excuses if they happened to see my bruises.

During this period I got really good at doing my makeup. I know that it's weird, if I just have shown anybody the marks they would have helped me. But I felt like I needed to protect Will, he wasn't himself when he hit me. The reel Will Lawrence loved me, took care of me and spoiled me with gifts. I couldn't show anybody the bruises because of the real Will. Sometimes it was like he was two different persons, like a true Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. But I could not betray the real Will even if it meant getting rid of Mr Hyde.

It continued like that for a few months, he hit me and I hid the bruises. Sometimes it was worse, so that I couldn't walk for a few days and one time he cracked one of my ribs. It hurt like hell but since Wills father is a doctor it healed smoothly. And if he suspected anything he didn't say a world, even though I know that he saw more bruises than my broken rib.

But the process was always the same, no different if the beating was an easy one or harder. Screaming, hitting, crying, forgiveness and gifts. On repeat. Again and again and again. I was so damn stupid.

To not fall over I plant a shaky hand on the cold stone. Slowly sinking to my knees not caring that the newly excavated soil was destroying my pants and sinking in between my toes. I don't know if the verbal abuse or the physical one was worse. The physical always healed, and I knew that in a few days it would all be better. But the worlds were always there. They cut like knives and twisted my brain to becoming something I didn't recognize. My thought was not directed to Will who said the things. They were directed to my own body. Actually wondering if he told the truth.

Was I stupid?

Was I fat?

Was I a slut?

Was I not worth anything?

Every night after we'd had a fight and went to bed, he always told me that he hadn't meant what he'd said. That I was beautiful, caring and that he loved me. But the words were stuck. Like glued to my self consciousness every time I would do anything. So, yeah, the physical abuse was awful but the verbal abuse damaged so much more than only my body.

But that last time something was wrong, my mind knew it and my body knew it. The atmosphere was like a big thunderstorm, with a thick layer of anger and hatred. And that was what terrified me, the hatred. In all of our arguments, because that was what I called them, hatred was never there. Anger, displeasure and impatience were constantly present. Sometimes passion owned a part of the fight too. But never hatred. Will didn't hate me, he was harsh and controlling, but he loved me. Or so I thought.

......