Page 9 of Hate to Love You
I was twenty-three the first time I killed someone.
It wasn’t like I suddenly snapped one day and went on a rampage. My thoughts had always been dark and somewhat twisted, and my rage had been bubbling beneath the surface for quite awhile.
Rage that stemmed from him.
Garrett Adams.
My husband. My world. My abuser.
Our story started off like most good old fashioned fairy tales.
Or at least the shit teen movies are made from anyway. Popular boy meets a neglected invisible girl and sweeps her off her feet.
I loved him immediately. My God, how I loved him.
He was the sun, and I was a little rock lost in the orbit of him. By some miracle, the sun noticed that small pathetic little rock, altering the course of its trajectory forever. He was the center of my world, my entire universe.
Perhaps that’s why I ignored all of the red flags.
I suppose it’s easy at first. When you’re so wrapped up in your bubble, enamored with the attention and affection you’re receiving, you tend to let the little things go.
But then they punch you in the face.
Which is exactly what happened. Well…he punched me in the face.
In the beginning I believed him when he said it was an accident, and that he didn’t mean to fly off the handle and hurt me when he was angry. Of course I believed him.
After all, he was my sun. And he said he loved me.
I couldn’t see it then, but his “love” was the most vicious of his lies.
He knew I was desperate for it, and he knew that by asking me to marry him, my love for him would keep me bound to him. No matter how awful he was, or whatever tortures he wanted to inflict.
My sun, my world…became a monster with a wedding ring.
It all came to a head the night of our fourth wedding anniversary.
That night he nearly killed me.
…And that night I decided to kill him.
The cab jerks to a stop, my body jolting forward in the seat, shaking me from my memories. So much has changed in the four years since I decided to leave my husband.
“Thank you!” I say, tossing the driver the required cash and jumping out, slamming the door behind me.
The street is full of busy people rushing around like the world is ending. Men and women dressed for work, weaving in and out of shoppers weighed down by bags. Or even the little group of elderly women dragging carts behind them, cooing at all the babies and dogs they pass.
Everyone in New York is always going so fast.
Walking down the sidewalk I take in the view before me appreciating the autumn colors in full effect, the golden leaves raining down in the cool breeze, making me glad I’d paired my fleece tights with my skirt.
I’ve come into the city for my monthly book club meeting.
I smile to myself.
Women all over the country come to little meetings like these. Hidden behind the ruse of a book club, it’s actually a support group for battered and abused women. Trouble is, women often show up expecting someone to give them a magical fix-all solution, and are sorely disappointed when the answers are always the same:
“Just leave.”