I remember everything about that night. I remember the room, with green walls and Christmas lights hanging on the ceiling, pictures of all his friends he took (he was so good at photography, what ever happened?), the desk, the computer with the blue and pink lights inside of it, the old beat-up chair with scratches all over the seat from sitting on it with his keys sticking out of the pocket, and the music playing (Dave Matthews, of course. He could actually play guitar pretty well, but he quit for some reason. What ever happened?).

I remember telling him I was leaving. I wasn’t going to sit back and watch everyone killing themselves. Including me. I couldn’t handle ignoring the world and living from pill to pill, needle to needle, trip to trip, drug to drug, escape to escape. It was too much. I couldn’t take destroying myself anymore.

He said that wasn’t good enough, I needed a better reason than that to leave him and everyone else. (He used to be such a good listener, so understanding. What ever happened?)

So I told him I couldn’t take not knowing when he was going to be normal or crazy. I told him the drugs were fucking him up, and that I cared about him, I really did, but I couldn’t even tell what days were going to be good and what days were going to send me to the emergency room. I couldn’t stand him hitting me any more, the yelling, the fights, the abuse. I couldn’t take it any more, I couldn’t let it happen again.

He said that wasn’t good enough, I wasn’t strong enough to take what I deserved. That I was just running away from my problem again. (He used to make me laugh every day. What ever happened?)

So I showed him the test. It was positive, I was pregnant, I was scared, and I was leaving. I didn’t want this baby to come into a world like this, where everyone was so reckless and didn’t care about themselves or anyone else. I couldn’t do that to our kid.

He said that I was a liar. That I was just making up excuses. That I was a slut, and he didn’t believe me. That it wasn’t even his kid, and he wouldn’t believe it. That I was fucking everyone else, there’s no way it was his. That I was just trying to fuck up his life. That I wasn’t worth it. That I didn’t even care about anyone else, I was just covering my ass.

He kept on yelling at me. Just screaming shit at me and ranting on about how I was a slut, and a whore, and I was trying to screw him over like everyone else. (He was never this paranoid when I met him a month ago. What ever happened?)

He was coming towards me, and I turned to run. He was too fast for me. He grabbed me and pulled me back. Threw me across the room so I landed half again the wall, half on the bed. Kept on screaming at me. I couldn’t hear anything but my heart racing and him screaming at me. I don’t think he was even making sense anymore. He was just babbling and screaming and coming at me. He looked like a demon. All his muscles and bones were tense and sticking out, and his skin looked too tight and stretched out over his body. His face was bright red, and his eyes didn’t even look human. They just burned and burned inside his screwed-up face over his open, screaming mouth.

He grabbed me by the hair and pulled until I was on my knees looking up at him. He screamed at me the last intelligible words I heard from that point on, “You fucking bitch!” and punched me in the throat. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even more, I just fell back and my head hit the side of his bed on the way to the floor. He kept on screaming words at me, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I don’t think it would’ve made sense anyway. I turned towards the floorboards, hoping he’d just hit my back and legs, anything except the front. But it didn’t work. He kicked me so hard I almost flew up in the air, and I rolled across the floor. He jumped on me, clawing and kicking and punching me. My face, my chest, my throat, my head, my stomach. He just kept on hitting me over and over, and I couldn’t stop him.

He just kept on going and going, and I stopped fighting. After a while he noticed I wasn’t moving, and stopped. He looked at me, his chest heaving and sweat dripping down his head and neck, soaking into his t-shirt. He looked so angry and evil. He stood up and spit on me, told me I could leave when I could walk, but he’d be damned if I took the kid with me. I saw his foot come up, and I screamed. It was all in slow motion. Me trying to push him away, his huge, construction worker boot coming down, the Christmas lights above me swinging a little, and the sound of the song “Stay or Leave” just ending in the background.

I didn’t move fast enough. His boot came down on my stomach. Just like I’d seen him stomp on beer cans and beetles. I was worth that much to him.

Fire. It felt like my stomach exploded. Like a bomb had been dropped on me. I screamed, I remember that. I screamed a lot, but no one came, and eventually I just passed out. I woke up, and there was a little pool of blood on the floor under my waist. I knew what it was from, but I didn’t want to think. I just got up. It hurt everywhere. Needles were shooting into every joint and muscle in my body. I made it down the stairs without falling, and I left. My stuff was still in my car. Everything I owned was in my car. I started up my new life and drove away crying and shaking.

(I used to be such a good, strong girl. Always knew what I wanted and how to get it. Never did anything wrong or got in trouble. What ever happened?)