The Price of Leaving

Have you ever woken up and realized you have been buried alive? Probably not, and good for you! I, unfortunately, did not have that luxury. How did I get there, I assume you are wondering? Well, it all started when I tried to leave my boyfriend.

The whole relationship was unhealthy, to say the least. It was a lot of build up to me finally accepting enough was enough, and that I deserved better. I never assumed he would be violent, but then again he always was unpredictable. The straw that ultimately broke the camel's back was a rather mundane interaction.

“Did you dye your hair?” he asked innocently, while he sat on the couch scrolling his phone. It was a left field question that made me stop what I was doing. I looked at him genuinely confused as to whether or not he was joking. He had helped me mix the dye, checked my hair for any missed spots, and then reminded me when the timer went off that I needed to wash the dye out. So surely he was joking right? Wrong. He just looked at me, waiting for a response. A response that he did not receive.

It wasn’t in that moment that I knew it was over, it was well before that, this was simply what finally made me feel the whole relationship was meant to be over. I did mean it when I said I didn’t expect him to get violent, but he was a large man with more muscle than I could ever dream of having, and as much as I hate to admit it, I took the coward's way out. I wrote him a short letter. I wrote that the relationship was over, and that I would be moving out shortly—though I gave no exact date. I then took up residence in the guest room and locked the door. After he got home from work that night, I knew he had read the letter, and the cabinets and doors started slamming. Fear coursed through my body hearing that, which told me I had made the right choice by not having the conversation face to face. I had spent just a few hours searching the web for any available room for rent, or apartment I could afford. I was incredibly lucky to find a small studio a few miles up the road that was available to move in in just a few days' time. The slamming doors had scared me enough that I felt it necessary to pack in secret, as not to alert him to how soon I was moving out. I had my plan, and started to pack, hoping that he and I would have no interactions before I could leave.

He worked overtime starting the next day, whether intentional or not I wasn’t sure, but I was glad for it. Though I will admit it was hard not to notice as items started to disappear from the shared spaces, the things I brought into the relationship of course. As soon as the studio was available to move into, I transported all the boxes I had packed. I only had a couple of boxes left to move the night it happened.

I was carrying the last box out of the house when I bumped into him as I turned the corner to get to the driveway. I apologized softly, expecting him to ignore me, maybe shove me and walk past. He didn’t do either of those things though. He yanked the box from my hands and threw it to the side, the contents spilling down the driveway from where it landed. I was dumbfounded at why he would do that, but was quickly refocused when he punched me squarely in the nose. My nose made a sickening crunch sound and I stumbled back, hand clutching my face. I wanted to scream but it got stuck behind the blood that poured down my face and into my mouth. He grabbed my hair and pulled me back into the house where he slammed the door behind us.

I don’t remember much of what happened after that, and I think I should be grateful for that. He hit me a lot, I know that, and I remember when he went on some kind of weird rant… something about a dog he used to own that ran away? He wasn’t making sense, and then he started crying. At that point I thought he would apologize for hurting me, but he never did.

I blacked out at some point, and when I woke up again, I was in the trunk of a car. His car. I tried to think of what you were supposed to do when locked in the trunk of a car, but my brain was too foggy to recall anything from those kidnap prevention assemblies they held in schools. He had tied my wrists and ankles with some kind of rope, it was tight, and as weak as I was I just couldn’t get free. I tried to memorize the route he was taking, right, then left, then another left, then straight for a few minutes, then right again. I tried hard to keep track, but not knowing where I started meant it was ultimately pointless to try.

It felt like I had been in the trunk for hours, going in and out of consciousness, before it finally came to a rough stop. The car turned off and I stopped breathing, eyes shut tightly, hoping that this was going to end with me alive and away from this lunatic. The trunk opened and I could see a bright light through my eyelids, clearly a flashlight shining in my face. He slapped me and told me to wake up, which startled me into opening my eyes. He looked like he had been crying again, and was sniffling. Not saying anything more he adjusted me to be sitting up in the trunk with my legs hanging out.

I didn’t know what to say, think, or do in that moment, so I just looked at him waiting to see what would happen next. He started pacing, and arguing with himself quietly. He only paced for a few minutes before he turned to me.

“You made me do that. You made me hurt you. I didn’t want to hurt you!” He was gesturing wildly as he spoke, getting red in the face as he continued. “If you had just done what you were supposed to then we wouldn’t be here! But no, you really had to be stupid about it!” He slapped me again and I just let my body slump to the side. He watched me for a moment before he walked out of sight. I heard the car door open, and felt it shift as though he had gotten in to some degree, and I figured that was my chance. I slipped off the restraints on my ankles and jumped out of the car as fast as I could.

I ran, trying desperately not to trip on something. He had driven us out to some kind of secluded area with a lake and a lot of trees. I didn’t know the area, and I had no idea if I was going the right way or not. It was a few minutes of me running until I felt a little safer, but that was when I heard him running behind me, and I realized very quickly that he was faster than me, and I would soon be caught. I still pushed hard, and got maybe another 500 feet before he grabbed the back of my shirt and I was yanked backwards. He got on top of me and started to strangle me. I scratched at him and tried to kick, tried to do anything that would save my life, but I was no match for him. The world went fuzzy, then red, then black.

When I woke up, I still felt like I couldn’t breathe. My whole body felt heavy and I couldn’t open my eyes. It took several tries for me to clear the heavy thing weighing me down and sit up. I wiped something gritty and dry off of my face, when I looked down I realized that there had been dirt on top of me. My legs were still under a layer that looked as though it had been packed down with a shovel, and I assumed the rest of me had had the same treatment before I sat up. I scrambled up and out of the makeshift grave and tried not to scream. I looked around to try to gauge where I was, but it was still unfamiliar. The sun was starting to come up, and I could see the sunrise through the trees. It had clearly been at least a few hours since I had almost died, but I couldn’t be sure he wasn’t still nearby. I gave myself just a moment to get my head together before I started running. I needed to get help.

I walked into the tiny police substation, cold, covered in dirt and blood, and in dire need of water. The reception was empty so I rang the bell on the counter, and waited. It took upwards of five minutes, but someone finally came to the desk. I explained that I needed to file a police report, and I was taken to an interview room.

I spent 10 minutes explaining the whole event, and then another 10 minutes answering questions, and then another 10 minutes re-explaining my story as the officer wrote it all down. When I had finished, the officer looked at me, and told me that the likelihood that my attacker would be prosecuted was slim. No one had witnessed what happened, and there was no proof aside from my numerous wounds. I argued that he would have marks too from when I fought back, or that his car GPS would prove that he had driven to the area where I was buried alive! It became crystal clear that they weren’t going to press charges on my behalf, and I was too tired to argue anymore, so I got up and left.

An officer, a different one to the one that took my statement, ran out after me and stopped me in the parking lot. She told me that she was truly sorry that there was nothing they could do, but she suggested that if my attacker thought I was dead, then I should stay that way. I nodded and tried to leave again, but she grabbed my wrist.

“If he goes back to your grave and finds you missing, he will likely try to find you again. Maybe he’ll even try to act as though you are a real missing person. If he comes here and you have that statement on file, he’ll know you’re alive and wanting to press charges. You won’t be safe.”

I hated that she was right. I had done what I was supposed to do. I left without leading him on. I didn’t cheat. I tried to part ways on a civil note. I never hit him. I only fought back when my life was on the line. I survived. I went to the police to report the attempted murder. I did everything right! Yet I was still not going to have justice.

So I walked back into that police station and I recanted the story. I then went to my studio apartment, I packed up once again, I found a new studio in a town across the country, I didn’t leave the house once until I was ready to move, and I told no one!

It’s been 5 years since that day, and I still look over my shoulder every time I go out. I got a big German shepherd, I have an expensive alarm system, I changed my name, I cut my hair, I don’t have friends, and I certainly don’t date. I don’t feel free, and I won’t until that man is behind bars, or dead. I will never feel good about the fact I recanted my story and will never get justice. I don’t know what the rest of my life will look like, but what I do know is there, in that tiny police station, is a statement with my name, his name, the events of that day, and the words, “I realize now, it was all just a dream.”