keep his back to me and I’d tell him m y side hurt and he’d
putter around and I’d see his back and then I’d close m y eyes
and wait. Then, sometimes, he’d say we were going out, and
I’d say I’m sick and I don’t want to, and then I’d get scared that
he’d leave me there tied up and I’d say I wanted to go, I really
did, and he’d sit down on the bed and he’d untie one rope
around m y wrist and then he’d make it tighter to hurt me and
then he’d untie it because I was shaking from fear that he’d
leave me there and I’d put on clothes, what he liked, and I’d
follow him, quiet. I never thought there was anything I
couldn’t walk away from; not me. If I didn’t like being
married I’d just leave. I didn’t care about the law. I wasn’t
someone like that. This was a few fucking ropes; so what? I
was getting nervous all the time; anxious; and he’d keep
waking me up to do something to me; to fuck me; to tie me; I’d
be sleeping, he’d be gone, he’d come in out o f nowhere, he’d
be on me in the bed where I was sleeping, I just could never get
enough sleep. It was ordinary life; just how every day went;
I’d think I could do it one more day, I could last one more day,
he’ll leave, he’ll change, he will go somewhere with someone,
a girl, he’ll find a girl, he’ll go away to buy or sell drugs and
he’ll get caught, he’ll go to jail, he’ll go back to running with
his pack o f boys; a man will always leave, you can count on it,
wait long enough, he’s gone, how long will long enough be?
I’d be counting seconds, on the bed, waiting. He painted the
bedroom a dark, shocking blue, all the walls and the ceiling; I
screamed, I cried, I begged, I can’t stand it, the walls will close
in on me, it makes the ceiling feel like it’s on top o f me, I’ll
smother, I can’t bear it, I screamed obscenities and I called him
names and I could barely breathe from the tears and he hit me,
hard, in the face, over and over; and I ran away; and I was
outside in the cold a long time; I didn’t have m y coat; I was
crying uncontrollably; I went to the park; men tried to pick me
up; I was freezing; m y face was swelling; I couldn’t stop
crying; I felt ashamed; I got scared; I went back; he wanted to
make love; I was tied in the room. I knew he was capable o f
frenzies o f rage; but not at me— he broke furniture, he
punched his fist into walls, once he tore up a pile o f money,
tore it into a million pieces— it was rage at things; not me; I
don’t care about things. It was an internal agony, he was
tormented, he was so distraught, and I thought I’d love him
and it would help that I did. When the violence possessed him,
it didn’t have anything to do with me; it didn’t; I was terrified
by the magnitude o f it, like the w ay yo u ’re frightened o f a big
storm with thunder that cracks the earth open and lightning
that looks like the sk y’s exploding, you feel small and helpless
and the drama o f it renders you passive, waiting for it to be
over, hoping it w o n ’t hurt you by accident. The first time his
