deepindespair95

[deepindespair95]

Unraveling Me

The sudden jolt thrust me from a peaceful slumber to a state of high alert, sending me into fight-or-flight mode. I thrashed my legs, tangled in the blanket, as someone continued to shake my shoulders, slurring, ‘Get up!’. Marcus. Marcus was back. My legs stilled, and I took a deep breath to calm my racing heart. ‘Come inside,’ he urged, tugging at my arm. I pulled away, ‘I’m going home.” He stumbled back, laughing, ‘You can’t walk home this late in the dark, just come inside, I want to play video games.’ I refused, and he continued to plead. I became aware of the intense itching on my arm and stomach – those bloodsucking bastards had feasted on me through the mesh hammock. I’ll never fathom why mosquitoes are so drawn to my blood – it’s as if they have a fascination with it. I refocused my attention on my surroundings, noticing the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting a silver glow across the sky. The moon’s soft illumination told me it was likely 9:30, maybe 10. The night air held a coolness that seemed to whisper the lateness of the hour.

I exhaled heavily, worn down by Marcus’ persistent pleas. ‘Fine, I’m getting up,’ I grumbled, heaving myself out of the hammock and onto unsteady feet. My muscles protested with stiffness and the cold seeped into my skin through my flimsy white crop top and holy jeans. I wrapped my blanket around me, clutching it with one hand, and scooped up my bag and water bottle with the other. Then, with a reluctant trudge, I followed Marcus to the porch.

As soon as he opened the front door, Kujo, his sturdy Pitbull mix, shot out, tail wagging wildly, body quivering with excitement, eager for a warm greeting. I dropped my bag and water bottle and slung my blanket over the porch railing, then bent down to give Kujo the hello scratch he was begging for, his tail thumping happily as I obliged. Marcus suddenly slammed the screen door shut and turned to me, his words slurred, ‘You know what? You should drive us to get more alcohol.’ I gestured to the empty driveway, and he let out his stupid, silly hehe laugh. He suggested I take his car, but I refused, ‘I’m not driving anywhere; I’ve been drinking, and I’ve learned my lesson.’ Marcus pressed on, ‘Come on, then let me drive.’ I firmly declined, ‘No way, you can barely stand upright!’ He pouted, ‘You’re no fun,’ and decided, ‘I’ll just ride my bike up.’ I urged him, ‘Marcus, stop being ridiculous, you don’t need more to drink. Let’s just go inside and get you to bed.’ Marcus rejected my suggestion with a dismissive wave and turned his back on me. He opened the garage door and pulled out his bike, struggling to swing his leg over it. After a few clumsy attempts, he finally managed to mount the bike and set off down the driveway. I tried to reason with him once more, but he ignored me and continued pedaling, turning left onto the road that led to town and leaving me standing there in concern.

I sank onto the porch, reclaiming my blanket and wrapping it around me like a shield. Kujo had vanished into the yard, but I called out his name, seeking comfort and reassurance that I hadn’t made a mistake by not trying harder to stop Marcus. Kujo reappeared from the gap in the fence and ambled over to me, nuzzling his chin against my knee. I stroked his head and scratched behind his ears, finding solace in his calm presence.

My brain is shouting at me to leave, to escape the toxic mix of Marcus’s drunken aggression and my own vulnerable heart. But my heart is a stubborn rebel, convincing me to stay, to believe that maybe, just maybe, we’ll have a real conversation about us and our future. It’s a dangerous game I’m playing, and I know it. It’s infuriating how Marcus still holds this power over me. Why can’t I break free from his grasp and make a rational decision for once?

I shake off the mental tug-of-war and lift my eyes to the starry expanse. The night sky, once a witness to Marcus’s and my deepest conversations, now beckons me to revisit those moments. I recall the night we sat on the deck, lost in the vastness above. The memory aches with a bittersweet nostalgia, leaving me wistful for a time when life was less complicated. I find myself yearning for that sense of connection and wonder once more.

I instinctively reach for my phone, seeking a distraction from the emotional turmoil. But the blurry screen reveals my own tears, and I hastily blink them away. As my vision clears, I glance down at my phone to see a response from Joseph waiting for me: ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ His timing is impeccable – too little, too late. I scoff at the screen, knowing his arrival now would only stir up more drama. I swiftly type out a reply, “It’s too late now…’ and shove my phone back into my pocket, dismissing the offer of help. Lost in thought, I wonder how much time has passed since Marcus left – maybe 10 or 15 minutes? Just then, Kujo’s sudden leap from the porch startles me, sending my heart racing. I turn to follow his trajectory and see Marcus careening down the driveway on his bike, his pathway unsteady. My fear spikes as he hurtles towards the garage, but he brakes just in time, jumping off the bike and propping it against the wall. My heart still racing, I watch as he steadies himself, his movements uncertain.

Marcus saunters up, a case of alcohol clutched in his hand, a foolish grin spreading across his face. ‘I got the good stuff!’ he boasts, his fake accent grating on my nerves. I ignore him, feigning interest in Kujo, who’s claimed the spot beside me, knowing he’ll receive endless scratches. Marcus drops down next to me, opening the case and cracking open a beer. He takes a long, satisfying swig before turning to me, his eyes already hazy and unfocused.

‘So, what’s up?’ he slurs. I hesitate and ask cautiously, ‘Nothing…so, where did you go?’ His tone turns defensive, ‘Seriously? I just went to the bar for a bit. I told you.’ But I press on, sensing anger and frustration in his voice. ‘You didn’t go with your friend, did you? You went with Wendy.’ I whisper, making it a statement rather than a question, He laughs, taking another long swig, ‘Look, I just went so she could eat, okay? Geez, ya looney.’ My anger and hurt simmer over. ‘How could you lie about something like that? You said you were helping a friend struggling with addiction, who wanted to get better for his kids. But it was all a lie!’ My jaw clenches, tears prick at my eyes, and my chest rises as I fight to control my emotions. Marcus finishes his beer and hurls the empty can towards the fire pit, missing the mark by a few feet. Kujo, ever curious, dashes over to investigate, sniffing the can before deciding it’s not worth his attention. He trots off towards the backyard, leaving me to focus on Marcus once more. He continues to spin his web of deceit, ‘I do have a friend struggling with addiction, but I didn’t see him today. Can’t we just move past this? I’m here with you now, aren’t I? Can’t we make the most of it? You can’t stay mad at me forever.’

He playfully nudges my shoulder with his, then pops open another beer. That’s the crux of the problem, I realize – I’m powerless to stay angry with him, no matter how hard I try. His presence has a strange, magnetic pull that makes me forget the pain, at least for a little while. His voice is like a balm, soothing the hurt, and his words obscure the memories. But it’s a fleeting reprieve. When his attention shifts and he gives me the cold shoulder, the pain comes flooding back, and I’m reminded of every painful moment I tried to forget.  

I jolt out of my thoughts when a sudden splash of cold liquid hits the back of my neck and trickles down my spine, soaking my shirt. I spin around, enraged, and shout at Marcus, “What the fuck are you doing?!’ He’s laughing, holding an empty beer can, and says, ‘Whaaaat? It’s all just fun and games you fucking crazy psycho!’ I’ve had enough. I jump up, ready to leave, but Marcus blocks my way, pushing me back with his hands. ‘Stop, just stay,’ he pleads. But I’m firm. ‘No, that was disgusting. I’m going home.’ I try to push past him, but he pushes me harder, making me fear I’ll lose my balance and fall off the porch. I freeze, and Marcus takes advantage of my hesitation. ‘Come on, I’m sorry. I thought it was funny. I won’t do it again.’ His eyes bore into mine, and I feel myself getting trapped in their gaze. I silence my brain’s alarms and sit back down, defeated. Marcus leaps off the porch and strides towards the fire pit, unzipping his jeans with careless abandon. He begins to urinate, and I look away, repulsed as always by this behavior.

After Marcus finishes, he approaches me, his jeans unfastened. I feel a surge of panic, unsure why. When he gets close enough for me to feel his presence, he pulls out his penis and demands, ‘suck me.’ Overwhelmed with disgust, I reply firmly, ‘No, I’m not doing that,’ turning my head away. I feel his hand grasp the back of my head, his fingers clutched around my clip, forcing me to face him once again. ‘I said suck me,’ he growls with increasing intensity. ‘Marcus, stop! We’re outside, what if your neighbors see?’ I push back against his grip, trying to create distance between us. His hold tightens painfully, compelling me to lean forward as he thrusts himself into my mouth. The motion triggers a gag reflex, and I exert every ounce of strength to push myself back, desperate to break free. Before I can regain my balance, he is beside me, shoving me through the front door and into the house. He pushes me past the kitchen and through the living room, where he quickly sheds his jacket and shirt. Then, he continues to maneuver me around the corner and into the bedroom.

Once inside, he yanks his pants down to his ankles and pulls me onto the bed, his weight pushing me down beside him. ‘Suck me here then,’ he says, a compromise that feels more like a command. My heart races as I prop myself on my arms, confusion washes over me. Why is he acting like this? I don’t want to comply, but fear grips me – is there a choice in this?

Tears threaten to spill as I wrestle with my decision. But suddenly, Marcus’s hand is in my hair; he yanks my clip free, letting my hair fall around my shoulders. He pulls me closer, and despite my reluctance, I find myself sinking into his demands, each movement accompanied by muffled cries I try to suppress. The sounds that escape him are primal, urging me to move faster.

Then he instructs me to remove my pants. With trembling hands, I undo my buckle and slip off my jeans and underwear, tossing them aside like discarded thoughts. I kneel on the bed, my gaze fixed on the wall, unwilling to meet his eyes. His hand grips my leg, tugging me toward him until I roll onto my side.

Marcus yanks on my hair, silently commanding me to continue as he places his hand between my legs. ‘Do you like that?’ he growls, his fingers exploring me with a ferocity that sends shivers through my body. I feel trapped, my voice lost in the chaos as I nod slightly in response. He continues, pushing deeper, teasing and circling, but then I feel another finger intrude in a way that sends panic coursing through me. I instinctively pull away.

Marcus growls in frustration and suddenly stands, grabbing my hips to pull me to the edge of the bed. I know what he wants, and deep inside, I scream that I don’t want this. But fear clouds my thoughts – there’s no escape. He positions me on my knees and presses my face into the bed, his body hovering above mine. A swift thrust, and I gasp, my thoughts swirling as he claims me. His hands find my breasts, pinching with a roughness that sends a mix of sensations through me. Then reality hits hard- he isn’t wearing protection. ‘Marcus,’ I plead, but he groans, lost in his own rhythm, and in that moment, it’s too late.

I collapse onto the bed, pulling my legs to my chest, feeling the weight of what just happened settle heavily around me. Marcus quickly pulls on his boxers and jeans, securing his belt with a swift motion. After a moment, he leaves, and I feel frozen, a statue of disbelief. When he returns, all casual, he says, ‘I’m going to play Call of Duty. You can come watch if you want.’

With a heavy heart, I gather my clothes, walk to the bathroom, and shut the door behind me. I go to the toilet, attempting to clean myself, trying to erase any traces of the encounter. But as I wipe, I see blood on the paper – a stark reminder of the aggression. Tears spill as I drop my head into my hands, battling the thoughts that swirl within.

This isn’t really him; I tell myself, convincing my mind it’s the alcohol, a disease altering his essence. After collecting myself, I fasten my hair and venture back down the hall, steeling myself to face him. In the living room, he lounges on the couch, controller in hand, lost in another world. He doesn’t even look up.

I slip outside to collect my bag, blanket and water bottle, then return inside to find Marcus still engrossed in the game, yelling at the screen. I set my water bottle onto the kitchen counter, toss the remainder of my things to the side and choose a spot on the floor, positioning myself in front of the ottoman, deliberately creating some distance between us.

I distract myself by scrolling mindlessly through Facebook on my phone, only to be bombarded by a feed filled with friends’ summer photos, melancholic quotes about failed relationships, and annoying ads for SHEIN, Amazon, and StubHub. The endless stream of content fails to erase the lingering memories of what I just went through. 

I exit the app and opt for Candy Crush, seeking refuge from Marcus’ drunken gaming debacle. Just as I’m about to win, a sudden, sharp pain strikes my face, leaving a lingering sting. As I twist to locate the source of the agony, the object cracks against my face once more. That’s when I see it - the belt, clenched in Marcus’ hand, resting menacingly against his back, poised for another strike. I spring up, outrage etched on my face. “What the fuck are you doing?!” I demand. But Marcus just laughs, clearly entertained, as if this were some twisted comedy routine. 

Appalled, I retrieve my phone, discarded during the chaos. “I’m leaving Marcus. That was completely unnecessary.” I turn to exit the living room, but Marcus swiftly blocks my path, leaping off the couch with an unnerving grin. “Come on, Ellie, it was just a joke,” Marcus says, his dark, dilated eyes gleaming with amusement. I stare at him, incredulous, before realizing he genuinely believes it. 

My hands rise in exasperation. “No, Marcus, it's not funny.” I move to sidestep him, but he grasps my shoulders, and forcefully pushes me back, silently denying my attempt to leave. A surge of adrenaline fuels my resolve. “No, Marcus, I’m leaving. You need to calm down and go to bed.” I meet his gaze, my tone firm. But Marcus’ expression transforms, his face contorting in anger. “I’m not going to fucking bed! I don’t have to! I don’t have my daughter, and I’ll do whatever the fuck I want when I don’t have her!” His outburst sends chills down my spine. The air feels heavy with tension. I’m paralyzed, unsure how to respond. In an instant, Marcus’ fury vanishes, replaced by a disarming laugh. “Just sit down and watch me play Call of Duty, Ellie.” His sudden shift leaves me reeling. 

I shake my head, mentally tossing out the temptation to stay, and continue towards the door. But Marcus catches me, his hands firm on my shoulders, pulling me back. “I’m sorry, Ellie, please don’t go,” he pleads. Two voices war within me: one demanding freedom, the other whispering forgiveness. Marcus’ apology hangs in the air, tempting me to stay. I bite my lip, paralyzed by indecision as his hands hold me back.

My weakness gets the better of me, and I sink back onto the floor, my stomach twisted in knots. Marcus settles in beside me, controller in hand, and resumes his game as if nothing had transpired. I zone out, my eyes fixed on the screen but my mind elsewhere. My gaze drifts to my phone, and I mindlessly scroll through Snapchat stories. The dryness in my eyes becomes unbearable, a testament to my own exhaustion. 

Marcus’ poor gaming skills become apparent, and he tosses the controller aside, frustrated. I ignore his outburst and continue staring blankly at the TV. Without warning Marcus kicks me in the leg. I turn to him, thinking it was an accident, but he laughs and continues the action. Confusion and irritation etch my face. “What's your problem?” I ask. Marcus kicks me again, and I stand up to block his next attempt. “Dude, stop! What's wrong with you?” He stands up, leveling his gaze with mine. “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? Can’t take a joke?” His notion of ‘fun’ has me questioning his understanding of the word, but I bite back my retort, fearful of provoking another outburst. “This isn’t fun for me, you’re hurting me,” I reply, choosing honestly over defiance, “I don’t want to stay if you’re just going to hurt me.” I glanced past him, wishing I had left long before he came back home. Marcus dismisses my concerns. “I’m not hurting you, Ellie. You’re overreacting. Let me finish one more game, then we’ll go to bed.” His words are laced with condescension. I try to leave, but Marcus’s hands thrust against my chest, forcing me to brace myself. Our eyes lock, and I silently plead, ‘Who are you?’ Fear grips me. “One more game, Ellie. Sit down,” Marcus growls, his voice cutting through me like ice. I feel my body betray me and I sink down to the floor, surrendering to his dominance. I rest my head on my arms, knees tucked into my chest, desperate for this nightmare to end.

Tears slip silently down my cheeks as I lie on the floor, exhausted. My eyes feel heavy and swollen; my heart is a weary drum. I fight to remain awake, keeping a wary gaze on Marcus, waiting for the game to end. But despite my efforts, my eyelids grow heavier, and soon, I surrender to the gentle embrace of sleep.

I jolt awake, panic coursing through my veins. The first thought in my mind is, ‘Where is Marcus?’ I scan the room frantically-he’s not on the floor where he was last night, and he’s not curled up on the couch either. Relief washes over me as I assume he’s retreated to his bed. I check my phone; 2:07 AM. Enough time for a few more hours of sleep before I have to walk home and make it to my appointment in the morning.

I stride across the room and dig through my bag until I find my phone charger. Quickly, I plug it into the outlet closest to the couch and insert the other end into my phone. I settle into the couch, wrapping myself in the blanket’s warmth. Kujo, sensing my stirrings, appears from around the corner and nudges beside me, his comforting presence calming my frazzled nerves. As I stroke his fur, my eyelids grow heavy. I close them, letting the pull of sleep draw me in willingly this time.

The weight on my legs ease and I slowly crack open my eyes to see Kujo trotting towards the hall. I sigh, unrested, but aware that morning’s here. Just then, Marcus emerges from the hallway, tousling his disheveled hair. “I can’t find my phone,” he mutters. “Set an alarm for 8 would ya?” He vanishes around the corner, leaving me to ponder. I glance at my own phone-it’s 6:52. My alarm is set to go off in eight minutes. A dilemma grips me: leave Marcus hanging or sacrifice my appointment for an extra hour of precious sleep? Guilt wins out as I change the 7 to an 8. As I drift back into slumber, the weight of my decision settles upon me.

Da-da-da-DUM, da-da-da-DUM! I thrust my hands under the pillow and fumble to silence the alarm’s ear-piercing shriek that was assaulting my eardrums. My fingers finally found the snooze button and blissful silence followed. I rolled over, taking a deep breath to shake off the remnants of sleep, and inhaled the quiet morning air. As I slowly regained consciousness, the soft sunlight streaming through the slats of the window blinds gently brought my surroundings into focus. The living room was a testament to the previous night’s events, with clothes scattered haphazardly across the floor like confetti. An Xbox controller lay abandoned on the ottoman, reminding me that I was the silent witness to his gaming session. Meanwhile, the TV screen pulsed with the vibrant, black-and-purple hues of the makeshift city screensaver, its dynamic dance a stark contrast to the morning’s tranquil atmosphere.

Shoot, the alarm! It was already 8 o’clock. I hastily swung my legs off the couch and planted my feet firmly on the ground, intending to fulfill his wake-up request. But before I could even move, the bathroom door creaked open, announcing his presence. He was already up and about. And then, in an instant, he emerged from the hallway, a towel wrapped casually around his waist, his chest still damp from the shower, with tiny droplets of water sparkling on his skin. The sight took me by surprise, and for a moment, I was frozen in place. I broke out of my reverie, pulling my legs up to my chest and resting my chin on my knees, unsure of what to say. Our eyes met briefly, and I caught his raised eyebrows, as if we shared an unspoken understanding that words were unnecessary. He crossed the room, rummaging through the laundry basket for a t-shirt and shorts. “Ugh, I’m so not ready for work,” he sighed, his voice laced with morning dread. “Yeah, I was just about to wake you up,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

He vanished as suddenly as he appeared, disappearing around the corner with the same swift silence. With him out of sight, I quickly collected my things, my movements fueled by a sense of determination. I yanked my charger from the wall, snatched my water bottle from the kitchen counter, and began to fold the gray blanket I had left behind weeks ago. I shoved as much as I could into my suicide awareness tie-dye drawstring bag, my hands moving with a sense of purpose. I was determined to leave this place behind, to never again step foot in the house where last night’s painful events had unfolded. What he did still lingered in my mind, a harsh reminder of why I had to leave…why I had to leave and never look back. I only wish that I had made things that easy for myself.