Holding my eye with my face planted to the ground. He did it again. He hit me and all I could do is cry. He always says that he would never hit me again, that he loves me but I find myself patching up wounds that have yet to heal. You see he was my first everything; love, fuck, father of my son. He’s my world. He never turned his back on me, just when I “acted up” he threw his fist to me. And as much as I know what he does is wrong my loyalty runs too deep.
This time around i was late making dinner. Elijah (my son) has been sick for a couple days now so I had my hands full. He walked in the house, body reeked of Vodka. “I’m hungry”,he slumped in the kitchen yelling. I put my head down pretending to be occupied by the baby. I knew it was coming. “BOOM”, the loud sound of a pot hitting the wall echoed from the other room. “Where the fuck is my food woman?”, a question I couldn’t answer before his hands were wrapped around my neck. I dropped the baby. Elijah laid there crying and screaming but mommy couldn’t help. I was being drug down the hallway into our bedroom. He beat the fuck out of me. It was just another night in my household.
After gathering myself together and getting Elijah off to bed I crawled into bed next to the beast. In the middle of the night he threw me down, ripped my panties off and began to have sex with me. Choking and grabbing me, it hurtled so much. This was not the person I remember making love to all these years. Once he was done he wiped himself on me and rolled over as if nothing ever happened. I turned to my side and slept in a pillow full of my tears. I had to get out of this, I couldn’t take it any longer.
A few weeks later I paid a visit to a nearby gun store. As the associate laid the gun out for me to see, he walks away to help another buyer, I grabbed the gun and ran. I refused to look back thinking that the man was behind me coming to retrieve his gun, I sprinted all the way home. A .38 revolver, I analyzed it and quickly loaded it because he would soon be home. He walked in stumbling through the front door, bottle of gin in his right hand. I grabbed Elijah to put him into bed but he caught my arm and swung me back to the couch. My child and I flopped down in pain. This time I fought back.
He smacked me, I bit him. He tried to force himself in me but I said “fuck that!”. I kneed him in the dick and ran for the revolver in the kitchen drawer. He ran after me and before he could get halfway in the kitchen “Pow”, I shot him. He dropped to the ground in shock, holding his stomach. He slid down the refrigerator as I walked up to him. I could see the death in his eyes, I smirked. I enjoyed this moment oh too well. I shot him again, and again, and again, until the gun was empty. I placed the gun on the table, sat on the living room couch and began to play with my baby.
It was all over. The police forced their way into the house with weapons drawn demanding I put my hands up. So I did. A lady with salt and pepper hair in an all black suit grabbed Elijah and in handcuffs they escorted me out. I patiently waited in the back of the cop car with the same smirk on my face. Despite the circumstances, knowing my son would be raised by someone else, I did it for him, for me, for us.