Nine times I ran and the one time I got away

The first time I ran from you, I thought I was in love. We had just met maybe half an hour before, and I was late for a meeting with my English professor. I was young, eight years younger than you, and barely an adult. I broke away from our first kiss and ran so I would make the appointment. When the meeting was over, I called you to tell you where you could catch me. It felt so much like love at first sight.

The second time I ran from you, I was frightened. Not of you, not yet. We were on an adventure and the railroad crossing sign was on. I wanted to wait, you wanted to cross. You yelled at me for being cautious. You said I was a coward and stupid and ridiculous. I turned and started walking away until the horn of the train drowned out your words. Maybe if I was faster I would have gotten away. You crossed a second time to catch me and apologize for yelling. Maybe if you were slower I would still be whole.

The third time I ran from you it didn’t work. I needed to get away so I went to my job. My coworkers asked about the marks on my neck but you had decided to come by so I told them the marks were only hickeys, not bruises. Yes, I lied, I’m surprised at how closely they resemble fingerprints too. The excuses were already tumbling out so easily. You bought something every two hours on the dot so you weren’t legally loitering, just enjoying an eight hour meal. Eventually my coworkers stopped asking and you became a fixture at the only table that had the best view of the kitchen.

The fourth time I ran from you asked to run from you we were at a crosswalk. This is when I still had friends, and talked to the people who cared about me. They told me they didn’t feel good about you. The light was still red, but when I told you I wasn’t happy and needed a break I found myself in the street just as a car was speeding past. You told the paramedics I jumped forward all by myself and spent all my money while I recovered in the hospital. I told the paramedics I couldn’t remember a thing, maybe I did jump, because they hadn’t kicked you out of the room and I was worried about the scene you would make if I asked you to leave.

The fifth time I ran from you wasn’t able to run from you, we were married. I was pregnant. I don’t remember, exactly, what had happened to make you upset, only that you were too close and I was backed into a corner and your face blocking the open door behind you was the last thing I saw before passing out. I woke up with bright red eyes from burst blood vessels and a sore throat and told my mother I had thrown up a little too hard. I still don’t know if she believed me.

The sixth time I failed to run from you I had a baby to protect. My bag was packed and I had no plan but a list of shelters and three dollars for bus fare. You caught me. Of course you caught me. What was I thinking? I wasn’t smart enough to get away. I deserved the scar you put on my leg. And the cane you bought me was pretty, so I told everyone at work it was a hiking accident and avoided my parents. To this day I can only go as fast as a brisk walk.

The seventh time I ran from you it was court mandated. I pretended not to know who had put in an anonymous call to CPS. I told you moving back in with my parents with my baby was a requirement. I told you the lawyer was for the both of us. You were the one who ran then, once you caught on, along with almost everything in the apartment. I had just enough left in the bank to pay rent one last time so I could clear out what was left.

The eighth time I ran from you I didn’t have anywhere to go. You were on my front porch because you had run out of money. You were knocking over and over on a door I was so sure you could kick in if you wanted to. You were calling my phone over and over until I blocked your number, then you just yelled loud enough for me and all the neighbors to hear while I sat in a closet with 911 on the phone until a police officer scared you away. I lost faith in the power of a restraining order that day.

The ninth time I– actually, this time, I think we can consider it you running. From me, from life, who knows? You asked to see my child. I laid out a list of requirements I knew you would never meet, made sure the daycare and the school and my parents all had copies of the restraining order in case they needed to call the police. Soon after that, your mother called to say you were dead. I still felt like I was running. I looked over my shoulder and kept my child in the house and didn’t go anywhere just in case you were trying to trick me. It wasn’t until I had the death certificate in my hands that I felt like I could breathe.

The tenth time I ran from you it was only a dream. In my dream we were young again, not married yet. Except this time I saw you for who you were. This time I wasn’t afraid or ashamed to ask for help. The tenth time I ran from you, even though it wasn’t real, was the time that worked and I woke up feeling free.