April 6, 1998

Another long night. Can’t sleep. Don’t want to eat. My mind just won’t stop. Does he know? How does he not know? I can’t sleep. My stomach is in knots, and I just don’t know what to do. Maybe…

April 8, 1998

He tried to talk to me. Now, he’s sleeping in the other room. He doesn’t get it. We got married so quickly, barely knew each other. I didn’t know him; he didn’t know me. It was fun, but now? I’m not so sure. We argue, and I can’t sleep.

April 11, 1998

I’m walking around the house, pacing, really. Holding my shoulder, rubbing my chest. All I said was that he should let it go. He shoved me against the wall, hard, then stabbed his finger in my chest, repeatedly. My shoulder hurts from the impact, but there isn’t a bruise. My chest, he poked my sternum, and there’s no bruise there, either. Then he apologized. Like it makes it all better. This is a bad idea. We shouldn’t have gotten married. But I don’t know how to get out of it…

April 18, 1998

I don’t understand him. He sleeps so soundly, and I stay awake late at night. It’s like this is the only time I feel safe, alone, not haunted by one bad decision. And because of that, I don’t get any sleep. An hour, if I am lucky. And he wonders why I can’t get pregnant. Part of me really wants that. The other part screams that it is a bad idea. If he is being abusive with me, how will he be with our children? It’s not lack of sex… we have that. I’m not on contraceptives. It’s stress, and lack of sleep. At least, that’s what my mom, the nurse, says. If he knew I talked to my mom about what happens? Yeah, he can never know. But I don’t tell her about the abuse. That’s not something I talk to anyone about.

April 20, 1998

Military life isn’t bad, for the most part. I like my job on the airfield, fueling the helicopters when they come in while they are still running, feeling the rotor-wash. It’s an adrenaline rush. Plus, he goes into the field three weeks out of each month. Probably another reason why I can’t get pregnant. He’s not here when I can. He’s in the field right now, but I still can’t sleep. The house is too quiet without him snoring. You would think that I could sleep because I’m not afraid he will wake up, but, no. Not me. Wide awake. Pacing, and writing. Wish I could come up with a decent story. That would help get my mind going, and maybe help it shut down.

April 24, 1998

Wow. Okay. Today was so not a good day. He comes back from the field and blows right past me. Doesn’t want to talk to me. Heads straight for the shower, eats some leftovers, and hits the bed. He sleeps for about four hours, and then wakes up. He’s got that evil glint in his eye, like he just needed a nap to be able to carry out his plan. I was sitting on the couch, writing. He comes out and starts asking me about the last few days. Where I had gone. What I had done. Who I had done it with.

Of course, I gave him a mostly honest account. I couldn’t tell him I met up with some people I knew from AIT. They were males. That would have made him so mad. But, somehow, he knew. He questioned me further. Really pressed for the answer. I kept denying it, even after he backhanded me across the face. Split my lip. Then he started crying. I was in shock and went into mother-mode to calm him down. Instead of crying myself, I soothed him as he cried and apologized. I should have left then. I didn’t.

He is sleeping, again. And I am holding an icepack against my lip. Now, to come up with a plausible excuse.

April 30, 1998

Because my unit isn’t very active, I have been tasked with funeral detail. I am glad that I am the one firing the rifle, not folding the flag. Something reassuring about the rifle in my hand. Timing it so that all seven rifles fire at the exact same time. The thought crossed my mind. Not aiming upward. Perfect forty-five degree angle. Don’t even sight, just fire and return to present arms. Attention. Present Arms. Fire. Present Arms. Attention. Repeat. That shot was just a little off.

Attention. Present Arms. Aim. Not at the sky. At him. So close. It would be a misfire. Friendly fire. Justified.

The chaplain asked me today if my family knew he hit me. Stunned shock for one minute. Couldn’t even stammer out the lie I had concocted, that my dog accidently bit me. Drop my eyes, stare at my food. Wish I was somewhere else. The chaplain was kind, and sympathetic, and offered me help, but, of course, I denied it. It won’t happen again, I assured him.

But I know it will. I lied to the priest. That is a sin all by itself, right? Not that I struggle with religious right and wrong, but still.

May 1, 1998

It is Beltane. A sacred holiday. A day to celebrate life, and procreation. A day to celebrate, period. I am not celebrating. I am hiding in the bedroom. Avoiding him. Pretending to sleep. Of course, he wants sex. I don’t. Not with him. Even the sex is starting to scare me. He goes back to the field tomorrow. No him for three weeks. But he still wants me to bring him stuff to the field… food, and me. His commanding officer has already gotten on to me about coming out to where he is. They call him “Quicky,” and at first it was funny. Now, not so much.

May 2, 1998

He is in the field, thank the gods. Kilgore called me, and I want to go meet him, but before I do, I have to go see him first. Fidelity is not my thing, but I am trying, kind of. Okay, not really. I am young, only 18. So many people, so little time… or not. Still, it isn’t like I actually love my husband. We got married after only 28 days. There’s no way there is love in that time. But, I am trying. I will take him some food, maybe let him get off real quick (like his nickname, ha ha,) and then, I guess I will go see Kilgore. At least the only expectation with him is a good time.

May 3, 1998

So, that was a complete disaster, but I am so convincing, yes? I took him some food. Let him have me in the HEMITT cab (not the most comfortable of places, let me tell you!) He asked me what I was going to be doing for the rest of the night. I kind of lied, said I would be home, reading. Okay, I completely lied. I am going to the barracks to see Kilgore, and the only thing I will be reading is Kilgore’s body. But I was convincing. And I didn’t mean to stay overnight at the barracks. That is a big no-no.

Kilgore wasn’t by himself. He had a friend over. Plus his roommate. Hey, I’m up for a fun and a good time anytime. But, I haven’t been eating, or sleeping, and screwdrivers were NOT the right thing to have on a four day empty stomach. Which is why I got sick, all over Kilgore. And promptly blacked out.

I don’t remember much, which is what a blackout is all about, right? Kilgore told me I had a good time. I am sore enough to believe it…

But waking up in the barracks? NOT A GOOD IDEA.

Sometimes he can sneak off from the field and come check on me.

Apparently he did.

I found my senior picture on the bed with my dad’s kitana sword through the heart. So, I guess he came home to check on me and found I wasn’t there.

I don’t know what to do.

I’m scared.

If he would do that to a picture, what will he do to me?

May 4, 1998

I guess I am lucky. I was only pinned on the bed and punched in the sternum repeatedly. No visible marks. No bruising. No one will believe me. Even if they do, they will say I deserved it. Maybe I do. But I don’t. No one does.

He found this diary, so he knows the truths.

I have to burn this, and never do this again.

I don’t know how long I will last in this relationship.

Maybe someone will find jal;kdfjoi[awhgyop43noi[hrwai[ngRKJAR;LMF’AS







April 07, 2020 15:33

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