Spiritual Guidance –

“She’s not showing any interest in me and she looks like she doesn’t want to be here. Should I take off her handcuffs? I thought kidnap victims were supposed to fall in love with their captors?
” ― Jarod Kintz
 

horrorchic87

Help me! I can’t see and my eye is swollen and throbbing, my lips cracked and parched, and I taste blood. He has me bound and my breathing’s painful from what I think are my broken ribs. I cough up blood and spit it out on my dress, why did I think he’d take care of me, protect me and guide me? That innocent dream’s gone as I hear the sound of his breathing in the next room. Does anyone know I’m here? Does anyone care? I should’ve made different choices, followed advice, and been more careful. This is my fault isn’t it? I begged for this he said, because I dressed the way I did. My walk was the lure, because my hips swayed a little too much, because I was confident and had long hair that fueled his desire. I struggled against the stiffness settling in on my body and mind, perhaps the shock’s wearing off. God I hope someone is praying for me. I feel around trying to find something that will help me out of here. As I fumbled around I bumped the door and it budged! Peering out of the small crack I see evidence of him all over, liquor bottles and clutter. Opening the door a little farther and I notice that he’s passed out on the chair with drug shit all over the table in front of him. Seeing my chance , I struggled to stand and barely made it up before falling with a thud on the floor. A shudder of stifled terror filled my panicked breaths believing that the fall would wake him. With my head on the floor I saw a knife just at the edge of the couch. With great effort I managed to get my hands on it, and began cutting the leather belt that held my hands. Damn the movies make this look easy, but it takes for fucking ever to do it and I manage to give myself quite a few slices before I’m actually am free. My adrenaline is kicking in hard but it beats back the haze that’s growing over my thoughts and making me dizzy when I stand. I hold the knife firmly, thinking that as I work my way past him I would drive it right through his eye, but I didn’t, I just wanted out of here and a chance to live. I didn’t think I wanted to live and I’m ashamed now knowing how bad I just want out of this and to be alive. I opened the door and ran through the street grabbing a cab that happened to be dropping off his passenger. I should go to the cops, but I don’t, I just go back to my apartment. He knows me and he’ll be back, after all, every pastor should know where the ladies in his congregation live.

Also published in Opinionsofeye.com

The Tub – Abuse cannot be cleansed

“When you aren’t loved, you aren’t real. Life is cold, like the stone against my palm.”
  – Richelle E. Goodrich,
Dandelions: The Disappearance of Annabelle Fancher
“Many abused children cling to the hope that growing up will bring escape and freedom…She is still a prisoner of her childhood; attempting to create a new life, she re-encounters the trauma.”
Judith Lewis Herman, Trauma and Recovery  
 
I hear him coming, old truck grumbling

Stumbling up the stairs.

I hear him cussing, broken glassesthrowing

Threatening me to tears.

I hear his belt undoing, drunken fury lashing,

Bringing my young fears

I hear the slaps landing, bruises are coming

Staining my skin with smears

I hear the bath filling, his sorrow is falling

Draining his guilty water clears

I hear the door slamming, darkness is calling

Suffering my torment through the years

Related Post: Slamming Doors
Also published in Broowaha Magazine

02282012

The Tub – Abuse cannot be cleansed

“When you aren’t loved, you aren’t real. Life is cold, like the stone against my palm.”
  – Richelle E. Goodrich,
Dandelions: The Disappearance of Annabelle Fancher
“Many abused children cling to the hope that growing up will bring escape and freedom…She is still a prisoner of her childhood; attempting to create a new life, she re-encounters the trauma.”
Judith Lewis Herman, Trauma and Recovery  
 
I hear him coming, old truck grumbling

Stumbling up the stairs.

I hear him cussing, broken glassesthrowing

Threatening me to tears.

I hear his belt undoing, drunken fury lashing,

Bringing my young fears

I hear the slaps landing, bruises are coming

Staining my skin with smears

I hear the bath filling, his sorrow is falling

Draining his guilty water clears

I hear the door slamming, darkness is calling

Suffering my torment through the years

Related Post: Slamming Doors
Also published in Broowaha Magazine

02282012