Here's a little tidbit that I just want to share:
Dust dancing in the sunlight streaming in through the small high window, the room stale with the smell of my own sweat and blood. He has been gone but moving from my spot on the concrete floor seems impossible. My knees are bruised and pounding from the pressure of my body, hands bleeding and dirty from catching my every fall and deflecting most of his vicious blows. Mascara tears have traveled down my red and purple cheeks the paths sting with every movement and flake away.
I could walk out the door, run down the street. Away from this place, away from him but where would I go? A shelter? My broken home? He would find me when he felt the want once again, hunting me down would only excite him more. Somehow, even though I hate him, the thought of his determination to own me gives me a feeling that resembles comfort or belonging.
No, I will not leave, instead I will stay and do as he wishes until he finds what he is looking for or kills me. In the morning he will wake up alone but he will be content, come into my room and clean my wounds and begin to soothe my equally tattered ego. So, until then, I will crawl up into my bed and try to dream of something other than the feeling of his breath on my neck, his grip on my hips, and the feeling of the floor crashing into me.
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