Last night, I was five minutes late bringing his mother her tea.
It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? Five minutes. That’s all it took for him to destroy my face.
His mother was visiting from out of town. She was sitting in the living room, and I was in the kitchen preparing her tea — exactly how she liked it: Earl Grey, a splash of milk, one sugar. I was in the middle of heating the water when I realized we were out of milk. I ran to the corner store. I was gone maybe ten minutes total.
When I came back, he was waiting for me in the kitchen.
“Where were you?” he demanded. His voice was low. Controlled. That was always the scariest part. The control before the storm.
“We were out of milk,” I said, holding up the carton. “I went to get some.”
“My mother has been waiting for her tea for fifteen minutes,” he said. “You know she has a condition. She needs to take her medication with tea.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was as fast as I could —”
“You’re always making excuses,” he cut me off. “You never think about anyone but yourself.”
I tried to walk past him to finish making the tea. He grabbed my arm. His grip was like iron.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he hissed.
“To finish the tea,” I said, my voice shaking.
“It’s too late for that,” he said. “You’ve already embarrassed me in front of my mother.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeated. “I didn’t mean —”
“You never mean to,” he said. “But you always do.”
And then he hit me.
His fist connected with my eye. I stumbled backward, hitting the counter. Before I could recover, he hit me again — this time across the mouth. I felt my lip split open. The taste of blood filled my mouth.
I tried to run. He grabbed my hoodie and pulled me back. He threw me against the wall. I slid down to the floor, covering my face with my hands, begging him to stop.
His mother sat in the living room the entire time. She didn’t call out. She didn’t check on me. She just sat there, sipping her tea, pretending nothing was happening.
When he was finally done, he stood over me, breathing heavily.
“Clean yourself up,” he said. “And don’t come out until you look presentable. I won’t have you embarrassing me in front of my mother again.”
He walked out of the kitchen. I heard him join his mother in the living room. I heard them laughing.
I stayed on that kitchen floor for an hour. Maybe longer. I don’t remember. I just remember the cold tile against my cheek and the taste of blood in my mouth.
Eventually, I pulled myself up. I looked in the mirror. My face was unrecognizable — swollen, bruised, covered in blood. I didn’t recognize the person staring back at me.
I packed a small bag. I waited until I heard them go to bed. Then I walked out the door and I never looked back.
I went to my sister’s house. She took one look at my face and burst into tears. She wanted to call the police. I told her not to. I told her I just needed to sleep.
But I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face. I heard his voice. I felt his fists.
The next morning, I went to the hospital. The nurse asked me what happened. I told her I fell down the stairs. She looked at my face and didn’t believe me. I could see it in her eyes.
She handed me a card. It had the number for the National Domestic Violence Hotline.
“When you’re ready,” she said, “call them. They can help.”
I put the card in my pocket. I still haven’t called.
Today, I’m staying with my sister. I haven’t gone back to him. I haven’t answered his calls or his texts. He’s been blowing up my phone, apologizing, promising it will never happen again.
But it will. It always does.
I know that now. I knew it then. I just didn’t want to believe it.
Five minutes. That’s all it took for him to show me who he really was.
And I finally believe him.
