Tuesday, January 22, 2013


“Honestly God, I didn’t mean it!” Katarina raised her eyes to the heavens, shaking her head. Blonde strands came free from where she’d tucked them behind her ears, flowing over her bared shoulders.

She emptied the bottle into her hand, and stared at the dozens of tiny white pills as she reached blindly for the bottle of cheap whiskey. Her fingers connecting with the uncapped bottle, she brought it to her lips, her face scrunching as the cool drink burned down her throat.

Oh how those tiny little white specks in her hand looked so good. How many times had she been here before – sitting in a corner, no tears to be found, clutching something that she knew could put an end to the pain. She couldn’t remember a time when some form of abuse wasn’t the main theme of any particular chapter in her life. As a baby, she was neglected while her parents got drunk. As a young child, she was raped by her daycare worker. As an older child, she was introduced to physical abuse so horrifying it took her years to talk about it. And then she got married. She thought that was her escape. She was wrong.

She shifted her position on the floor, wincing in pain. Her backside felt as though it were on fire. She shook her head, dumping all but one of the pills back into the pill bottle. She placed the kept one on her tongue, and with a deep breath, swallowed it down with a long sip of amber liquid. Had she known life was going to go back to how it once was – a way she had thought was gone for good – she would have taken the pills or whiskey before he came home.

And all because she went to church. She was violated and bruised because she went to church. Or, perhaps it would be more accurate to say it was because she smiled at someone at church. She wasn’t quite certain. He didn’t exactly take the time to tell her much more than “you stupid slut,” and “I’ll make sure no man or god wants you, not that any do anyway.”

She was used to his words, but lately they had gotten much worse. Nothing she did or said was right. Nothing she felt was right. At one point she had, in error, told God she’d rather be physically assaulted than deal with this emotional and verbal abuse anymore. As she shifted again, and tucked the strand of loose hair back behind her ear, her hand accidentally brushing against a fresh bruise on her jaw, she realized she hadn’t meant that prayer.

She took another long swig of whiskey.

She wished she knew someone who could help her, who could help her find courage. She had someone once. Of course, she could never have told him about what had just happened to her. It wasn’t something you discussed with anyone. And even if she had the strength to tell him, he had already abandoned her anyway.

She opened the pill bottle again, slipping another white pill out, and swallowing it down with a swig of whiskey.

Why did the good ones always abandon her? She felt a tear start to escape her eye, and quickly brushed it away. Of course, there had only been maybe two or three good ones. She reminded herself that this time it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t technically even his fault. His wife got a new job in a new town, and he had no choice – he had to go with her. She felt a twinge of envy as she thought about this – a man who let his wife make the decisions… a man who loved his wife so much, he didn’t care about his own desires. He only cared that she be happy. Oh how Katarina wished she had found a man like that. How she wished she had found this man before his wife had, or before she’d found her husband.

A noise pulled her from her thoughts, a glass shattering on the wall just above her head and an onslaught of cussing pulled her head up. She watched as he stormed out the door, still cursing her. She watched as drops of blood dripped onto the floor, a shard of glass having sliced her arm. She watched as what little hope was left slid out of sight. She picked up the bottle of pills again. She opened them. And she didn’t allow herself to think another thought as she finished off the whiskey bottle and lay down to sleep.

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