“Turn out the lights” he said, as I walked into the room.
“I will, I’m sorry, I’m just quickly looking for my glasses, I’m sorry”
“Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you, I’m sleeping”
“I know, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to wake you, I need to take my lenses out and I think I left … “
“For fuck’s sake, I am trying to sleep, turn the lights off and shut up with the long story, I’m fucking sleeping. Cunt”
I crept out of my bedroom, like I always did.
Not because I was afraid of him, because he didn’t scare me at all, anymore. In fact, I think I scared myself more, because of the anger that his words filled me with. Each word he threw at me, was another spark on the now murderous fire raging inside me. In comparison, the first night he swore at me; so innocuous and so true (because lets face it, I was being a bitch at the time); I thought that I was getting what I deserved, right?
So fucking wrong.
Now, all these years later, there was nothing left in me for things like fear, heartbreak, hurt, pain, shock, confusion; probably not even sympathy, empathy or compassion. These things that had once made me human had all been beaten out of me, ironically and horrifically, not with his fist or with anything that left any physical damage or scarring at all.
When I felt this way, when he spoke to me like this, I always thought of that song, that got drummed into me, on the playground, as a kid: “Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will never harm me”.
What a fucking lie.
Everything human, everything that I was; everything, even the memory of joy, had been beaten out of me. With words.