Scars Or Tattoo's?

Chapter 9

Dearest Filip,

This letter is my truth. My truth will anger you. But for this to only make sense I must take you back to my college days.

I had went to college to be a writer. I wanted to be a novelist. To write romance and mystery. I loved romance as my parents and grandparents had romance and to tell stories as they had was a dream of mine. Nothing sweeter than two people in love who found each other in ways that their lives crossed and they became one heart.

After my four years I was out of college and seeking employment, employment that would also allow me to begin writing what I wanted. And I found that. I was working part time and doing research for this company. As with one book I was writing I had to do research for a romantic crime novel I had my thoughts on.

I met a police officer who was able to help me. He was so fun during that time. We had went out a few times to discuss the research. I guess we were dating now that I think about it. After 6 months had passed, he proposed to me, and with that he wanted me to quit my part time job, stay home and write, take care of our home and have a family. All of this I agreed upon. It was at that time in my life what I thought I wanted.

Filip, it's not what I wanted as this is going to get bad at this point. Stay calm. After 4 months of marriage, I had started to notice changes. Nothing at that time that I couldn't handle. He would come home from work and I was in the office writing, he would get mad, very mad that his dinner wasn't on the table after his long day of work. I then made sure to keep him from being angry to make sure this was done each day.

Then, the laundry wasn't done each day. He would be pissed. The dusting wasn't done, he would be pissed. I was wearing a pair of sweatpants and t-shirt with my hair tossed up, that pissed him off. These things I was able to control. And I did. He was one who never picked up after himself. If I went to bed early and he stayed up watching tv, the next morning he was upset because I left the living room a mess, it was his beer bottles and his chip bags he had after I went to bed. I just went with the flow. It should have been clue number 1.

Then one night there was a dinner party at another officers home. I dressed up, we went. I was sitting on the sofa talking to another officer, and truth be told, we were actually talking about the weather. Something simple. My dear husband came over and sat on the arm, then taking me by my arm, and off away from him. I didn't think much about it, he remained at my side the whole night, smiling over at me. I thought at that time, how happy he looked and how happy it would be that night when we got home. We then went to the car, he started it and drove down the road. And trust me when I didn't see it coming. He reached over and punched me in the jaw. Blood ran down my face. He then began screaming at me of how I could I have led another man on, I didn't. How could I flirt in front of him. I wasn't. He screamed at me the whole way home, that I just sat there and cried and apologized. I ran into the house, cleaned myself up. When I went in the bedroom he was in bed. I refused to lay with him that night and went to the sofa where I cried myself to sleep thinking of how I could have been so careless.

The next morning I was awoken by him pulling the covers off of me and screaming at me that my place was in his bed and that I was never to sleep on the sofa again. Clue number 2, should have been. But this too I could somehow control.

You must see that with all of this, it always made me feel it was my fault and I must correct my mistakes. And once this happened, I could not be seen in public, now with a busted up face. How dare I go out not looking like the trophy he desired.

I had became angry, sad, upset, and alone, as I had lost my friends, my family, I went to my fathers funeral with a large pair of sunglasses and didn't talk to anyone, attended the graveside service and left. To this day I will regret that I missed my father's final years, final months, weeks and days to hide in my own home.