The Leaving

     I wake him up to hug him before leaving for work. Not because I want to, but because he has a problem with me leaving without telling him I love him. He drowsily hugs me back, still laying in bed.

     “Do you want me to hug you?” I ask tentatively, mostly because I didn't want to hug him.

     “What do you mean?” He asks, suddenly awake.

     “Well, last night we talked for hours and we went to bed angry at each other.”

     “Of course I want you to hug me. Do you not want to?”

     “I don't have time for this, I need to get to work.”

     “No, what do you mean?”

     “I have work, I'll be back in a couple hours and we can continue talking.”

I leave the room and take a left down the short hallway past the bathroom and another left to descend the stairs. I hear him yell from the room.

     “Fine, leave. Fuck you.” I fucking am, I thought in response. “No, you know what? You can't fucking leave!”

     As I was turning around, with laughter still in my throat and only about a third of the way down the stairs, I began to say “Watch-” I was cut off by a hand clenching my throat and lifting me up the stairs. I grab his wrist in an attempt to pull it off but he is stronger than me. He pulled me back into the bedroom and threw me on the bed. He climbed on top of me, and sat on my chest, but holding his weight off of me. I tried to punch him, but he held my wrists down with his knees.

     “What's your fucking problem?”

     “I need to get to work.”

     “You aren't going to work.”

     “Work is a legitimate obligation-”

     “THIS IS REAL LIFE, COURTNEY. I'M RIGHT HERE. TALK TO ME.”

     “This IS real life, and I need to get to work. I'm already going to be late.”

     “WHY CAN'T YOU SHUT UP AND BE HAPPY? WHY CAN'T YOU JUST BE HAPPY?” he asks with his hand across my face. Even if I could respond to him, I wouldn't have been able to. I don't have an answer for that other than 'you don't know me. I can't be happy if I shut up.' I looked into his deranged eyes and hoped I could make that thought pop up in his head. I realized at this point that I couldn't breath. His hand was covering my mouth, pressing down on my face, and his hand was big enough to cover my nose. I started shaking my head and trying to tell him I couldn't breathe. He pulled his hand away and I thought it was because he knew he was suffocating me, but he started slapping me.

     “I'M GOING TO KILL YOU, COURTNEY. I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU.”

     It sparked something in me. Maybe it was that point that he was screaming and slapping me in the face that I realized he was completely serious. He took everything too seriously, but if he wants to threaten me, he better have some balls.

     “Go ahead and fucking do it, you pussy.” I respond looking him straight in the eye, showing him no fear. The shock spreads across his face and his body loosens in disbelief. I'm not sure, even now, if his disbelief was at himself or at me, but I took advantage of his weakness.

     I slipped out from under him, rolled onto the floor and jumped up quickly. I got my phone and keys out of my pocket. I held my keys so that each key was poking out between my fingers when I made a fist in my right hand (my punching hand.) I put my phone in my left hand, just because it was the only thing I could think of to put in my hand to make a punch hurt. I pulled the computer chair between us, and bent my knees to assume a defensive position. Once he saw that I was ready to defend myself against him, his rage rose again.

     He stood up off the bed and started charging me from across the room. I prepared my mind for what I assumed was an oncoming battle. I would most definitely have to fight my way out of this. In split seconds, my brain had run through various scenarios in which I could draw attention to myself so that someone would call for help. I was thinking about smashing windows, and the probability of making it to the door. If I made it to the door, I could run into the street screaming, and at least 3 neighbors would call the cops. Especially if they saw him drag me back in the house. It was a good area, and the neighbors were family.

He was charging at me and the closer he got, the clearer my mind became. I started thinking about all his soft spots and how quick I would have to be to move in order to hurt him before he could hurt me. He reached the chair and threw it across the room, where it hit the wall loudly. This is fucking it, I thought, the time is now. 

     But the time was not now.

     After he threw the chair, he fell to his knees and wailed the sorrow song of someone who lost everything they were trying to hold onto. He crawled to me, still crying and hugged my legs. I was confused and just stared at him, emotionless.

     “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

     I had no response. I had no idea what he was apologizing for.

     “Please don't leave. Don't leave.”

     I continue to stand, dumbfounded. I've already left. I've been gone. And when we discuss anything, I run further and further from him. I look down to see him mourning and his wet eyes plead with me. I feel nothing looking at him.

     “Let me call out of work.”

     The phone rings, and when my manager answers I vaguely tell her I can't come into work because my partner won't let me leave.

     “Do I need to call the cops?”

     “No, I'm leaving. We don't need to get the cops involved. I don't fear him. I pity him, but I need to pull away from him myself. I'm really sorry I can't get to work today. I promise this will never happen again.”

     “Keep in touch, I'm gonna worry about you,”

     “I'll text you, I promise.”

     I hang up and call my best friend. “He hit me just now. I need to leave and not come back. Would it be possible for me to stay where you are?”

     “Absolutely. For as long as you need. Be safe. I love you.”

     “I will be, I love you, too.”

     That done, he walks outside and asks me if I told anyone what had just happened.

     “Of course I did.”

     “Why would you do that? Is anyone calling the cops?”

     “I told them because that's what happened. And I asked them to not call the cops because I've got this handled. You do know that I'm leaving though, right?”

     “You were gone before you started walking down the stairs. I know that now. I was just trying to keep you with me. I love you and I want you with me.”

     “You don't want me. I wither with you. You tell me to be myself but when I am myself you chastise me for not 'acting right.' So I'm convinced you love the idea of me. I'm everything you aren't. You want me to be me but when I'm social, you worry about me having sex with other people. You put that out into the universe. I don't. I have errant thoughts about whether I would have sex with someone or not but only because you ask me not to fuck them. I married you and I told you that was forever. I also tried to tell you how unhappy I was, but you didn't listen to me-”

     “You never told me why you were unhappy!”

     “Because I didn't know why! But now I know it's because I can't be me. I'm tired of trying to convince you of anything. You believe what you want and you need a girl that is happy sitting in your room like a good girl.”

     I began to collect my things and put them in the car. He argued with me about me taking the car.

     “That's my car! It's registered in my name and so is the insurance.”

     “I bought that car AND paid for the insurance on it for a year. My money. My car. Fight me for it.”

     “That's not fair! I sold my other car to move out to Idaho to be with you!”

     “That's not my fault. You chose to do that. You could have kept your car. You were the one who sold it.   You could have driven it to me. You did say you don't like flying.”

     “It was an '88 Oldsmobile, and it was falling apart.”

     “We drove 2,500 miles in an '86 Cutlass Ciera that was literally falling apart. Stop making excuses.”

     “We changed the oil and tires before we left and kept enough gas in it.”

     “All things you could have done.”

     Once I was done collecting my clothes, shoes, cd's, dvd's and various trinkets I've had since childhood, we went out to the shed to smoke one last bong together. He started to cry after a few minutes of normal conversation.

     “What's wrong?”

     “This is it. This is the end. You're leaving and we were just starting to have fun together.”

     “You're forgetting I've been gone.”

     “I know, but at least I could pretend. Now, there is only facing the truth. It fucking hurts.”

     “Of course it fucking hurts. I love you. I don't want to leave, I need to. We aren't good for each other.”

     “I can't be alone, you don't understand that. I'm afraid of being alone.”

     “Me too but sometimes that's necessary. You told me that you want me to be me, I need to find me first to know.”

     “You knew who you were when we met...”

     “And then your jealously and pressure changed me. Or, that's not right, that's blaming you. I don't mean to blame you, I changed to make you happy. That was also not right. I just need to go.”

-Kiz