I couldn't tell how long I had been on the floor.
The clock was somewhere behind me, but I couldn't turn my head far enough to see it.
Richard moved around the room, speaking loudly and angrily.
He kept returning to the same accusations.
I had ignored him.
I had abandoned the family.
I had made him look bad.
He said these things as if repeating them often enough would make them true.
I lay on the tile and tried to breathe without moving my shoulder.
My back hurt.
My wrist hurt.
Every breath felt too small.
I was afraid, but I knew that fear alone would not help me.
I had to think.
That was something the Navy had taught me, though not in the way I had expected to use it in my own home.
When things went wrong, I learned to separate what I felt from what needed to happen next.
I did not have to feel brave.
I only had to make the next decision.
Richard's footsteps crossed the kitchen.
I heard a cupboard open.
Then it slammed shut.
He was looking around, touching things that belonged to me as though he had every right to be there.
The thought made my stomach turn.
I had worked for everything in that apartment.
The couch.
The table.
The uniform.
Even the plain white mug on the kitchen shelf had been bought with money I had earned myself.
None of those things was especially valuable.
That was not the point.
They were mine.
My home was the first place I had ever lived where I did not have to ask permission to relax.
Now he had broken the door and carried his anger inside.
I tried to raise myself onto one elbow.
My arm gave way.
I dropped back onto the floor and bit my lip to keep from making another sound.
Richard turned.
“What are you doing?”
I didn't answer.
He came closer.
I held still.
He looked down at me, and I saw the expression I remembered from childhood. It was the look he wore when he expected me to apologize before he had even explained what I had done wrong.
I used to rush to fill that silence.
I used to say I was sorry just to make the room feel normal again.
I used to believe that if I chose the right words, he would eventually calm down.
I no longer believed that.
But I was still afraid of him.
Both things could be true.
He stepped away again.
I heard him muttering about my mother.
The words pulled me backward through years I had tried not to revisit.
I was ten when she married Richard.
He had arrived in our lives looking like a man who had everything under control.
He drove a clean truck, dressed neatly, and brought my mother flowers from the grocery store.
He smiled at neighbors.
He remembered people's names.
When adults visited, he knew how to make them laugh.
My mother seemed happier at first.
I wanted to be happy for her.
I thought we were going to have a proper family.
I didn't understand how different a person could be in public and behind a closed door.
The first time he frightened me badly enough that I cried, I thought I had done something to cause it.
That was how it began.
Not with one terrible event that everyone could point to later.
With small things.
A raised voice.
A punishment that made no sense.
A rule that changed depending on his mood.
A demand that I apologize for upsetting him.
After enough years, I became good at noticing things before they happened.
The way he set down his glass.
The sound of his boots in the hallway.
The pause before he called my name.
I learned to read the room before I entered it.
I learned to keep quiet.
I learned to tell myself that other families probably had problems like ours.
Looking back, that last belief makes me ashamed.
Not because I was a child.
Because I still carried it into adulthood, long after I knew better.
Richard's voice brought me back to the apartment.
“You never appreciated anything.”
I stared at the underside of the kitchen table.
I wanted to tell him that appreciation had nothing to do with it.
I wanted to tell him that a child did not owe an adult obedience in exchange for being treated decently.
Instead, I kept my mouth shut.
I needed him to look away.
My phone was still under the table.
I could see the cracked edge of its screen whenever I shifted my head.
It wasn't far.
It might as well have been across the room.
I moved my fingers against the tile.
The movement sent pain through my wrist.
I stopped and waited until the worst of it passed.
Then I tried again.
A few inches.
That was all I managed.
Richard began pacing.
His voice rose and fell as he repeated the same complaints.
I focused on the sound of his footsteps.
When they moved toward the living room, I dragged myself closer to the table.
When they turned back, I froze.
It was slow work.
I could feel my cheek scraping the floor.
My breathing sounded strange in my own ears.
I wondered whether anyone in the neighboring apartments had heard the door break.
I wondered whether they knew what was happening.
I wondered whether they would come out to look.
Then I told myself not to waste time wondering.
My phone was the only chance I had.
I had spent three years building a life that did not include Richard.
I had thought that moving away would be enough.
Now, lying on my kitchen floor, I understood how little distance meant when someone refused to respect it.
I had not invited him.
I had not called him.
I had not agreed to see him.
He had come because he believed he could.
And I had to survive long enough to make sure he couldn't keep doing this.
I pulled myself forward again.
My fingertips touched the edge of the table leg.
I rested my forehead against the cool tile.
For a few seconds, I couldn't move at all.
The room seemed to tilt.
I was losing time.
That frightened me more than the pain.
I forced myself to look at the phone.
Then I made a decision.
I would not waste another second trying to reason with Richard.
I would reach the phone, send for help, and keep going as long as I could.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: My Uniform Was Still Hanging Neatly in the Closet While I Crawled Across the Kitchen, Searching for the One Thing That Could Bring Help
I Thought Three Years and a Locked Door Had Put My Childhood Behind Me, Until Someone Began Beating on My Apartment Door at Two
Part 2 of 20
