Intertwined Apart

CW: contains themes of domestic violence, emotional abuse, self-harm, and trauma.

Hands on the wheel. Hands on the wheel. Focus focus focus focus. Not on the raging thoughts within my head, or the white patches of skin making their way to my fingertips from how hard I'm gripping. Not on the pounding in my chest that still hasn't gone away, or on the tears I so desperately want to let go of.

No. I have to focus on the road. The miles and miles of what once was an empty field, filled with the beauty of greenery, flowers, maybe even a river, who knows. But then cement was poured atop it and it was never the same again.

Sometimes I picture myself as a field like this one. There was so much potential that I had, and I held it so near and dear to me I never expected it to be taken. Someone took me in, poured cement over me, and now I don't think there's any way of going back. The cement is different. I don't think it's cement.

Something unexplainable was poured all over me. It's trapped me and I can't move. Can't do anything except keep pushing on the gas pedal. I can't even think of what I'm doing, my mind an endless whirl of what ifs and whys and hows and all of them are being overtaken by the one thing I don't know if I truly believe anymore.

Love.

Such a simple word, with the most complex definition.

What is love? And how can you tell if you feel it? Everyone always says they love you, but then they do something you would think love wouldn't be associated with, and now they've got you all up in your head. Love isn't a game, nor is it a joke to dangle in front of someones face, yet certain people think it is, and certain people have to suffer with the ones who think that way.

I just never thought it would be me. And yet here I am, on my way to his house, so I can apologize, even though I never did anything wrong. He was the one who punched me, leaving me so shook in my house alone, I never laid a finger on him.

It feels weird to think back to that moment. The physical pain I felt will never compare to the pain I feel so deep inside me right now. It's physical, yet I can't feel it. And that, I will never understand. How can something hurt so much but you show no signs of it? It makes me feel like I'm overreacting, becoming attention-seeking,

selfish.

And maybe that's why I'm going back to him. Because deep down I don't know if any of this is real or not. My pain can only be considered a burden to who I really am. And who I am is a person capable of making things right, even if I didn't make them wrong in the first place. Most people can't do that.

I'm driving driving driving, forgetting everything, and fantasizing a world where everything we just did never happened, and we can start over.

Fucking bitch!

I can't even describe how much you disgust me.

Who are you?

You must learn there's always consequences to actions, but I thought you already knew that, huh?

Hate trickles down from my neck in the form of sweat. He said all those things to me, as if hitting me, taking his anger out on me, wasn't enough. I keep telling myself he didn't mean any of it, and that he was just upset. It isn't him, because I know him, and the man that I love would never say that to me.

I've made it a good distance away from my house, but I've still got a good 15 minutes before I'm to his house. It's going to be okay. I'll get there, we'll hug, we'll kiss, you know, the good kinds of physical touch. But what if that doesn't happen? Oh god, the thought never occurred to me before, but what if he does it again?

No, he wouldn't. My foot shakes on the gas just thinking about it and I force myself to steady my foot before I drive myself into the ditch somehow.

He just wouldn't. I've given him a day to cool off, and now he'll be happy to see me, like he always was is.

My phone rings and I jump. Quickly I look to see who it is. Mom. I don't feel like talking, but you can't ignore your own mother. So I accept immediately.

"Hey mom," I speak up first, urging to remind myself that I can still speak, that at least I haven't done something bad.

"Hey honey, how's everything going?"

Her voice is so pure, so full of a mothers love it makes me realize how somebody sounds to you when they truly care.

That night he screamed. He didn't care at all.

Then I realize what she's asked me, and I realize there's no way around it. I can't lie to her. I won't lie to her. And besides, the tears have started to fall. It was killing me to keep them in, my eyes screaming for an escape from the pain.

"He's hit me," is all I can say before I start those deep breaths you always do when you cry. I also realize that I'm paying no attention to the road, so I pull over to the side and hope no cop comes up to me. That'd only make things worse.

"What? Who? Are you-oh God no-honey answer me."

So much worry is built into her voice. So much pain is all I can give her, so much so I can't form it into words. She's the first person who knows. And she won't be the only one.

No one deserves to feel like this.

But he's so nice.

But he's not anymore.

But his eyes, his humor, his jokes, his

We were so intertwined, so much so I wonder how such a perfect person could ever change that.

"Go to the police station right now," mom tells me, more so a demand than a suggestion. I never thought of that. But I couldn't do that to him, could I?

"It's not that big of a de-"

"Is that why your eye was black yesterday?" The car goes dead silent. Even the birds seem to stop chirping. "You didn't get hit by a baseball, he abused you."

I drop my mouth unintentionally. "Abused? That's too far. He only punched me once."

A long pause on the other end. "If he does it once, he's bound to do it again." Then she takes a deep breath, the deepest breath I've ever heard anyone take. "Get out now before it's too late."

"So I'll just break up? I don't need to get him in trouble."

I think I hear her gasp and only then do I realize the weight of words.

"Oh honey, you are so blinded by love," she whispers. "Saving you will save others. Go to that station now."

Saving you will save others.

I never thought about it like that. Not only will reporting him make the things I feel lighter and easier to carry, but it will also make other girls never have to feel the way I did and still do. It hits me in the face like a pile of bricks. An 18-wheeler just ran into me. Something hits me and everything seems to fall into place around me.

Mom’s breathing is the only thing left. I can no longer hear the thoughts telling me to believe him. That he would never do something like that again.

Mom’s right. If he has the guts to do it once, he’ll have twice the amount to do it again.

I love the way he makes me laugh.

Made me laugh. And he’ll never get the pleasure of making me laugh again.

”Thank you mom.”

Then I’m off the phone. Thank you wasn’t enough. I really should’ve said, thank you, you saved my life, you’re the best mom I could ever ask for, I love you.

I may never know what love truly is, but I know love isn’t a black eye, or a bloody nose. I know it isn’t screaming with no remorse, fists clenched and thrown into your face. I know it isn’t sitting on the side of the road, tears piling up inside your eyes and you’re so afraid to let them out because that would mean whatever happened is real and you’re hurting.

No one wants to appear hurt. They just want to love, and to be loved back. The crying is just proof that it wasn’t met.

My car is put back into drive and in a matter of seconds I’m back on the road, several cars in front of me. I speed past them quickly, only one thing on my mind now.

Focus on the beautiful image of his face in pain.

Who knows if he’s done this before? Who knows what he has done before me? There could be others like me, and this one is for them. Not for me, but for the ones who let the illusion of what love is take over them, until they can no longer speak. They can scream, but no one can hear.

Love really is a stupid thing. Something so positive, so desired, who knew it could be the thing to unravel you, strip you of who you are and who you were before it.

That’s not going to happen to me this time. I’m not going to let it.

Because there’s his street, up ahead on the right. The road towards the hospital and police station-luckily nearby now-are to the left. And when I get up there, I’ve never felt more sensation turning left than I do now.