Let me just make one thing clear before I recount this dream. My boyfriend and I most certainly do not have an abusive relationship, far from it. We’re very happy and in love and tickling is pretty much the extent of our physical torture against each other! I was doing a lot of really emotive domestic violence reading before bed though – and I think that’s where my unconsciousness took its inspiration, and as you will see clearly at the end – I knew all along it wasn’t my world. I guess it was just the way I could deal with and work through the horrors I was reading about. So… here goes nothing.
Cradling my arm, I leaned against the wall and sobbed my heart out. Tears slipped through my bruised, half closed eye and caused me to wince every time the drops of salt infused and stung the small cuts in my cheek where his wedding ring nicked me. The house was finally quiet, except for my sobs and I laid on the floor and took stock of my situation.
Enough was enough. I was so exhausted at being black and blue every single day, week and month of the year. I was nothing more than a toy or punching bag to be thrown around, abused and put down at every available opportunity in some half-arsed attempt for him to feel better about himself. But it never worked. And it just kept happening.
I tried to leave. Once. Twice. And every time he found me. Dragged me back by my hair. Punished me for trying to run away.
Maybe this was my lot in life. I must have done something seriously wrong in another life to deserve this kind of karma.
And then he says sorry. With flowers, and kisses and tender hugs.
Then it happens again.
Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap.
Banging my bruised head against the wall I moan in anguish. I can’t take it any longer.
Rising to my feet with a newfound determination, I walk into the bedroom. Unable to stop the tears streaming down my face, I let them fall – dripping fast and hard down my chin and landing on the collar of my shirt. They weaken and disperse the drops of my splattered blood from the deep crimson of anger to a soft pink of regret. I take it as a sign that I can do this – that the pain will go fade eventually just like my blood.
Yanking open the wardrobe door, I reach up and fish around blindly for the bag I know is on the top shelf. Pulling it towards me, I sneeze as a cascade of dust rains over my head and invades my already overworked sinuses. Turning slowly, I take stock of the room. The dainty, sheer yellow curtains that flutter softly in the slight breeze through the window. The solid oak bed frame that had been the site of so much love and so much pain. The deep red quilt draped unceremoniously over an unmade bed. Gritting my teeth, I swore the first thing I would do out on my own would be make the bloody bed!
I slowly trailed my hand along the dresser; my finger cutting a clean line in the build-up of dust and exposing the shiny, new surface underneath. I picked up a photo of us smiling blissfully at the camera and used my sleeve to gently wipe away the dust adorning the glass; wistfully staring at the people we were. Lifting the same hand to my face, I covered my mouth gently as my wails of anger and fear turned to soft sobs of sadness and anguish at how things have turned out.
Looking up, I notice the bright and open room has turned dark; the furniture is now draped in aged white sheets; the carpet releasing small clouds of dust with every step. The room has been closed up for a long time I realise. Moving my hand to my eye, I can feel it is wide open and clear. With a startling clarity I understand that I don’t belong here. This wasn’t my life; wasn’t meant to be my dream.
Walking to the doorway I stand and take stock of my surroundings. I know it’s not my place; was never my place. But I feel sorry for the poor girl whose place it was. Quietly pulling the door behind me, I smile sadly as it seals. I know she’s ok somewhere now. But this place should never be seen again.
Photo credit: Beyond Impression http://beyondimpression.deviantart.com/art/In-My-Darkest-Hour-340124715