They say a woman leaves an average of 7 times before finally never going back to an abusive relationship. It took me 8. I'm Averille Marren and I'm a survivor. I wasn't always Averille Marren though. I was born Averille Louise Barry. Blasted ugly name but that's neither here nor there. When I was 3 my parents were killed in a plane crash. I was staying with a family friend and they had no desire to keep me so before I knew what was really happening I was in the system.
My first home kept me until I was 12. They were nice enough but very patriarchal. Men (father and 2 sons) ruled, women kept the home and obeyed. If not then there were punishments. I remember being 4 and Ma'am didn't have dinner on the table on time. Mister made her redo everything! He scolded her, then scolded me for not helping Ma'am. She remade dinner for him and their 2 sons. I had to stand in the corner while they ate then had to do the dishes, by hand. I then had to write Bible verses about obeying men until bed.
A few weeks later the parents caught us and that's when I went to my second home. They would not allow a nobody teasing their son. Because as we all know, a 12 year old is a brilliant sexual tease (insert eye roll). My second home was unpleasant to put it mildly.
One bright spot was Chris. She was their bio daughter but knew things weren't right. She was just biding time til she could move out. We became true sisters and are to this day. When I was 14 they had me get a job to support them because they weren't getting enough from the state and I should show my appreciation. So, I worked at various jobs often missing school to do so. The people didn't care if I was educated, just that I gave them money. They burned through it gambling, drinking, buying crap. When I was 15 I started at the arcade. I enjoyed that and Chris worked there too. When I was 16, she was 18 and moved out. She promised she'd be there for me but had to escape. Didn't blame her, I'd have done the same.
When I was 18 I met a man named Simon while at the arcade. He was gorgeous and funny and made me feel important. I fell hard and fast. He moved me into his apartment 3 weeks after we met. I thought it was true love, that I'd finally found a home. Boy was I way off. Six months into our relationship he had me quit my job. He just felt I needed a rest, that focusing on the home was more important then being treated like shit at a dead end job. It made sense and, he loved me. He only wanted the best for me. Time slowly revealed the truth.
By the end of that first year it was clear that he was in charge and I was not the love of his life, as previously thought. Started small, always does I learned. I didn't have dinner right on time so I was a bitch. The house wasn't clean enough so I deserved the hour long rant about my worthlessness. I deserved to be smacked and berated. I'd disappointed him. I never wanted that, I loved him. I was wrong, just needed to try harder and he'd be happy and keep loving me.
Fifteen months into the relationship I really fucked up. He'd asked me to run him a bath. I felt he needed to relax so I added some lavender bath salts. By the time he was done teaching me how to run a man's bath properly I had 3 broken ribs, a black eye, a split lip, a cracked skull, and a 3 week hospital stay. Doctors were told I'd been in a car accident. I'm sure they knew better but did nothing, neither did I. The day I got home from the hospital he had me on my knees scrubbing the floor of the entire apartment. I had to earn his forgiveness. I had been gone for three weeks and let our home go to shit after all. This began the routine...I messed up, he berated and beat me.
The second year, I tried leaving twice. The first time I came back after sweet words. The second time was after another hospital stay. He didn't come to pick me up so I took a chance and ran. But I had no money, no way to get or stay anywhere. I slept on the streets for a week before going back.
