Ugly Love

Author's Note: There are themes of abuse and violence in this piece. Please read with discretion.

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Slam. Another hit lands. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth and it almost takes everything in me not to gag. But I refrain. It would probably piss him off. Just like everything I did pissed him off; Like laughing at another man's joke, forgetting to add enough sweetener to his tea, wearing a color he doesn't find flattering on me, or forgetting to let him know I had work or class that day--to name a few.

I piss him off. My sole presence enrages him recklessly.

Sometimes he tells me that the look on my face is what he hates the most about me--amongst other things of course. “What look?" I want to respond. But I know better.

I can say I don't know what he means, but I know. It's been five years of this hell after all. In the beginning, I would stare at him in shock and fear, desperately holding back tears. Over the years I've learned to hold it in, always hold it in. The less you show the better, I think.

Now, as he stands a foot or so away, staring down at me with disgust and rage, I'm incapable of mustering up a single emotion. I feel numb, empty, despondent. My face is still, my body frozen to the spot, and my hands stiffly positioned to my sides. I'm quiet and undefiant, but my eyes are filled with a daring intensity. It's all I have left; My defiance. "I will never let you break me," I think to myself.

"How many times do I have to tell you? I don't want you hanging out with those b*tches!" He snarls at me, fists curled at his sides.

My gaze wavers to the peeling nightstand behind him.

"I'm sorry. They invited me out. It's been months since I've seen them. They're worried about me," I respond in the quietest voice I could.

Let him know you're not a threat. I think to myself.

He takes a small step closer to me, his hand lifting for another strike. My eyes shut instinctively. His blows come soon after. For what feels like hours he brutalizes me, disregards me, abuses me. It was likely minutes, less than 3. During, I go far away. Somewhere where I have peace of mind and solace. I call it the cave.

The cave is my happy place; I'm in an obnoxiously pink room, lying on a futon with Betty--my high school best friend. The telly's on in the background blasting some new gossip but we're not paying attention. She's telling me about her latest trip to Bali with her parents. I listen intently, popping a few chips in my mouth as I did so. She's so interesting.

I’m in the cave a lot. Replaying a moment in time when I was truly happy. I miss her so much.

His footsteps retracting softly in the distance bring me too. When my eyes snap open, all the sensations come back to me. My body aches and sores, and I can barely stand up but I try—pushing against the side of the bed to lift myself up. I have work in 2 hours.

I begin my “routine”. I take a cold shower. My fresh cuts sting, but I ignore them. After a shower, I rub cocoa-scented lotion on my tan skin, sprit lavender-scented perfume all over me, and start at my hair. I stare at myself in the mirror while I brush through my tangled curls. My reflection stares back at me, with hollow eyes, and a seemingly engrained scowl. I sigh deeply. I don’t remember the last time I felt beautiful.

Well, I suppose that’s a lie. I do remember.

I remember the first day Xavier and I met like it was yesterday. Probably because it was the happiest day of my life. I was still working at Ji’s Café spot. I hated that job, but it paid the bills.

We were really busy that day. Customers coming in and out, and there was only two of us behind the counter. I was running the register and making the drinks. I was spread thin, to say the least. Jack—my other coworker—was doing his best, but we were barely getting by.

“I’ ’ve been waiting for 10 minutes!” One of the customers protests from the side of the counter.

I give her a quick glance coupled with an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry ma’am, we’ll be right there with your drink. We’re a little short-staffed tod_” I start.

“I don’t care! I have a meeting in 3 minutes. 3 minutes! And I haven’t seen either of you even start making my drink,” she snaps with a scowl.

The long line of customers turns to face her. I’m offered sympathetic glances, but no one says anything.

I feel the small shred of patience I have beginning to thin when I hear his voice for the first time.

“Get in line lady, can’t you see they’re overwhelmed?” He speaks up.

He was 3^rd in line. He wore a patterned red and black flannel and some grey jeans. He looked no taller than 5’11, had ginger red curly hair, faint freckles on his cheeks, and thick shapely eyebrows. His eyes—I later learn—are a stunning amber green, and the moment I stare into them, I feel something shift in the air, something shift in me.

A light blush taints my cheeks when he locks eyes with me and smiles kindly.

“You’re doing a great job,” he reassures.

Pissy lady storms off yelling obscenities, but I pay her no mind. Absolutely not. How could I when Xavier was in my presence?

When he looked at me, I felt worthy. When we first kissed, touched, and shared the same breath, I felt as though every moment in my life had led to this, led to him. I knew I had to be beautiful, because how would someone like him ever be into someone like me? And he was, into me that is.

A bitter smile forms on my lips as I recount that memory. I did meet Xavier for the first time that day, but I didn’t meet the real him until months later when he first laid his hands on me. They say it never starts with abuse, that it amps up. And I suppose they’re right. But what they fail to mention is how blind you are to someone’s flaws when you’re in love.

He's not possessive, he’s just jealous. He just wants me to spend more time with him, that’s why he made me stop hanging out with my friends. He only likes it when I wear feminine clothing, that’s so flattering. He must really care about me.

It’s been a while now since I’ve planned on murdering him. To shove a knife deep into his chest repeatedly until his body became limp and cold in my arms. I didn’t have to kill Xavier, I needed to kill Xavier. It was a disturbing urge and desire I’ve had for years now. And tonight, was finally the night.

He was drinking again today, so by the time I got home, he’s practically passed out on the couch. I go through the plan in my head again, as I have done thousands of times before.

The thought that I needed to kill him first came to me 2 years ago. We were lying in bed together, having just had sex, and he was asleep in my arms, snoring lightly. He looked beautiful in this state, innocent and serene. The opposite of who he truly was. He was ugly, is ugly. I knew then, as I watched him sleep without a care in the world, as I kept scratching at the spot on my thigh where he had placed a burning iron a few weeks ago, that I was going to kill him. And so, for two years that is what I lived for. That was my purpose. I was put on this earth for that sole reason. No one will ever say to me, “You’re so unlucky you met him that day.”

That f*cker should have never met me.

I’m facing the mirror again, and for the first time in a very long time, I’m smiling. A big white, toothy smile that takes up almost half of my face. I slide latex gloves over my hands, give my reflection a big thumbs up, and make my way to the kitchen. He’s hunched forward on the couch, snoring lightly, out cold. I get on my knees behind the couch and reach under it to slide out the butcher knife I had hidden there.

Taking slow calculated strides, I find myself standing directly in front of him.

I don’t get scared. I don’t even back out like I was sure I would. Excitement courses through me, I can hardly contain it. I have to physically restrain myself from bursting into laughter. He can’t wake up yet.

I lift the knife from my hands, draw it back, and SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT into his back. He jolts awake, screaming. I push him back onto the couch, one hand laced against his mouth, and before he can even react start again SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT. Blood spurts from his chest, leaks through his wifebeater, and splatters all over my shirt. He finally realizes what is happening to him and uses both his arms to throw me off of him. I fall flat on my back, and the knife clangs a few feet away.

“You crazy b*tch!” He screams in shock, clutching his bloody chest.

I can’t help it anymore, I begin laughing, hysterically. So much so that my body shakes and I have to wrap my arms around myself.

He stares at me, with what appears to be fear behind those beautiful eyes.

“What the f*ck is wrong with you?”

I get back on my knees, reach for the knife, and stand to face him.

“Don’t worry, my love,” I say as I smile reassuringly at him.

“I’ll be joining you in hell.”

I return to my fun, slashing at every part of exposed flesh I see. He resists, putting his hands out, yelling at me to stop, but he’s too weak to do anything now.

The metallic smell of blood fills the room, it consumes me, it is me.

When he is unmoving, I relent my attacks. Satisfied, I fall to the floor, drenched in red. Smiling, I shut my eyes, and lose myself in the cave as I place the glistening blade on my bruised neck where his hands had been mere hours ago.

SPLAT.

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