(Disclaimer: Little short story I wrote and I just wanted opinions on it, wrote it fairly quickly btw & warning, mental illness & abuse. Thank you for reading)
@sixpenceee @sixpenceeeblog
I was about to blow my cover. You could hear the ornaments on the table rattling above me, all due to my trembling. It was a sad attempt of hiding I suppose, but I couldnāt go through that again, not today at least. My cheeks were swelling and throbbing and my right leg had a huge welt on it from a decent slap he had yielded. I reeked of sweat and I could taste the salty tears against my bruised lips. I needed to get out of here, I needed an escape plan, I was sick of playing this demented little hide and go seek game with him. I was sick of being beaten.
I stood from beneath the table, trying my hardest to hold back the shaking. I wiped the blood and tears from my face, being gentle against my tender skin. I continued on to carefully wonder around our broken home, glass crunching beneath my bare feet causing my body tense up. He canāt hear me. Be quieter Elise. His voice was replaying in my head like a broken, scratched record.
āYouāre a whore. Nothing but a dirty slut, you know that?ā
No, I wasnāt.
āWhatād you say!?ā He questioned me, his voice booming through the house.
Nothing, I didnāt say anything.
He didnāt know what he was talking about.
Thatās when his hand came down on me, it was quick and sharp, right against my mouth. I whimpered under his grip but I was smart enough to know not to speak. If I did It would just be asking for another hit, this time even harder, maybe even in a different spot.
āDonāt you ever question me again, Elise, you hear me woman?ā
I was on the floor now, my knees up to my chest and my body squeezed together as tightly as I could put it. I was a disgrace. Thatās what I was told anyway, and I guess after this long I started to believe it. If it wasnāt true why was this kind of thing happening to me? Maybe I just wasnāt meant to be loved, maybe Iā¦
Deserved it?
āWhy are you on the floor? Crying again are we? Little brat.ā
āLittle, attention-seekingā¦ā
His hand came down swiftly upon my leg and I moaned in agony, covering my mouth with my hand so the neighbours couldnāt hear our encounter again. It makes him mad when the police get called.
āØI needed to find my phone immediately, if I called my sister Erika maybe she could help.
The dial tone rang five times before she picked up.
āElise?ā She answered the phone questioningly. I shivered with happiness just to hear her comforting voice.
āWhatās the matter? Are you okay?ā Erika asked through the phone.
I trembled, sheās going to be very mad when she hears.
āHe hit me again, Jason hit me again.ā I whispered so he couldnāt hear.
There was a pause on the line with my sister, but I could tell she was still there because her faint breathing.
āElise, what are you talking about?ā Her questions were frustrating. What does she mean?
āYou heard me!ā I whisper-yelled, āJason hit me again, I need to leave.ā
I heard rustling on the other end of the call and could make out what Erika was doing, was she typing?
āWhat are you doing Erika?ā I asked, why wasnāt she listening? Her sister was here beaten and bleeding on the floor of her own house.
āIām talking to mom, Elise have you taken your medicine?ā I couldnāt believe she was doing this.
āI don't need it!ā I screamed, hanging up on her.
I didnāt need medicine to tell me what was right and what was wrong. I knew what was happening and that was what mattered, I was being abused, I was being bashed, physically, emotionally.
I didnāt need Clozapine to tell me if this was actually happening or not. I wasnāt schizophrenic, Jason was! I wasnāt crazy.
Observing my hands, my fists were scraped and slightly purple from hitting something. When did that happen? The glass shattered on the floor was empty bottles, had I been drinking?
I had never been this confused since my diagnosis. Nothing was real anymore, and with my so called āconditionā, apparently neither is Jason. But to me he was. It wasnāt me.
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