As quickly as she could flinch, facing the anger she’d seen so many times before, he raised his arm and threw the glass of whiskey across the room, striking her in the side of the head, tearing her skin less than a fingertip’s distance shy of her right eye.
‘How about you take a long walk off a short cliff!’ he exclaimed as blood trickled down the side of her face. ‘You’re a perfectly good waste of a human life. Nobody needs or wants you here.’
She bent down to start picking up the pieces of glass that had shattered across the floor. Attempting to hide her tears, she couldn’t help but think there had to be more to life than this, that she deserved better than this. That this was the last birthday she’d spend at the helm of such a monster.
People have scars in all sorts of unexpected places, like secret road maps of their personal histories, diagrams of all their old wounds. Often times the hardest part is not knowing what we’ve been through or how far we’ve come, the hardest part is how people react. What hurts the most? I’m not sure. It’s a toss up between people not believing you, or people downplaying what happened as though it wasn’t anything at all.
That’s why people stay silent for so long.
That’s why people get away with it for so long.