
This story deals with domestic violence and family violence and could be triggering for some readers.
It was such a long time ago now, and he is someone buried deep in my past.
But at the time, we were in our 20s and in love, and so when it happened, I was in shock. My trust had been shattered.
On a lazy afternoon, we lay on his bed, chatting and laughing. We were being silly and joking around. I poked his side playfully, once, twice.
On the third poke, he snapped.
Women and Violence: The Hidden Numbers. Article continues after video.
He flipped me over him and onto his other side, with the ease of a pancake. My neck sunk into his pillow, and I remember the white wall staring at me as he yanked my arm behind my back. The force jolted me. Did he not know it?
“Stop! You’re hurting me. Stop!” I yelled out.
He didn’t. Instead, he mounted my back, wrenching my arm tighter still. I wriggled and writhed, trying to free myself, but couldn’t. Powerlessness. I kicked, my legs not long enough to connect with him as he continued to sit on me.
Utter fear.
He is going to break my arm. He is going to break my arm.
“You’re hurting me! My arm!” I screamed, my face now wet.
Moments passed until he decided he'd had his fill. That he “taught me a lesson”.
I leapt off the bed and ran through the hallway to the bathroom, fumbling to clasp the lock on the door. I sat on the edge of the bathtub, trying to process my racing thoughts.
My heart pounded in my ears and questions urgently rushed through my mind as I tried to make some sense of what had just happened.
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