Once upon a time. . .
I lied about my age to an eighteen year old when I was twelve or thirteen and then again when I was fourteen – I told him I was sixteen I’ve always been more mature than my age. Events have happened which have ultimately enabled me to grow up quicker than most people. I had the mentality of a sixteen year old, I felt no harm in stating I was this age.
We dated. It was nice. I felt loved. Until the day he started to pin me against the wall and beat me.
The first week or so was grand. We had a lovely time, alone. We spent hours smoking spliffs, enjoying the sun and talking about life. Our problems never mattered and we just felt at peace.
One warm day, I had to be home. I told him I had to leave, he wasn’t happy. He demanded me I had to stay, which I couldn’t. He pushed me against the wall, dug his large hands down, deep into my hip bone and told me I had to stay. Repeatedly, I told him I needed to go. He then reached for my collar bones, pushed them deeper into the wall, I was just glad he didn’t go for my neck. I looked into his eyes, pleading with him telepathically to stop. His eyes beamed a sense of evil which I never believe I could see in him.
Several incidents like this took place. I finally realised I couldn’t take it much longer. After sleepless nights and weeks of coming up with excuses to my bruises – I had to get rid of him.
Dreading his reaction, my heart pumping and my whole world spinning. I told him we were over, for good. His facial expression looked confused. He had such a naive look to him that I was contemplating if I was in the wrong. I didn’t want to hear anything from him, I ran.
I ran all the way home and blocked any communication from him.
Surprisingly, we never bumped into each other. I never saw him, it was great. I found a new boyfriend, who I presumed I loved and everything was great. Until, me and my new boyfriend split up. My darling abusive ex somehow had heard the news and slithered his way back into my life. After days begging for another chance, I gave him one.
I was back with him. The abuse continued.
I once again, quicker this time, realised I had made a bad decision. I again, dumped him. This time, I didn’t run fast enough.
On hearing what I said he began to hug me, too hard that I couldn’t breathe. I told him to stop. He let me go and then once again, pushed me against the wall. I told him I wasn’t going to take this. I didn’t deserve it. I told him, I had to go. I pleaded and begged. He grabbed my wrist. I was struggling too hard, my wrist suddenly snapped. I felt the bone inside crumble and I couldn’t move. I froze and so did he. I told him that this time, he really needed to go. He did.
I went home crying, complaining how I had ‘fell down the stairs’ and my wrist hurt. I went to the hospital. It was, indeed, broken.
I never have heard from him since. I’ve bumped into him a few times, my heart starts beating so hard that I think he could hear it but he doesn’t even dare look at me.
This explains a lot.