His fist spoke out in anger. It is true men can tell their strength by the palm of their hands. This kind of love, they say, will bring you a life time of pain. Was it the speed of his kicks, or my breast caging into my chest? My blood symbolized his hatred. He told me time and again the strength that I felt coming through my womb was the power of his love. For a while I believe that no other man would be able to love me as much. But something was very strange about this kind of love, because I didn’t feel as if I was in paradise. How could it be paradise when I had a fist over me as a reminder that if I dare to escape my life would become worst than it already was?
I sensed that he knew that he was tying me down. Anything that he said, I would jump to his command trying my best not to upset him. In a way it was like an addiction, because I didn’t want to leave John. He was my bread and water, the very air I breathed to survive. He had me good. I had no sense of self because I no longer belonged to me. I was like his slave. “Yes master, no master”, was my every reply to my lover. Another kick followed by the tone of John voice, I felt the sudden shock and the hard impact of my broken ribs. I held on to life as tight as I could. I crawled to his knees hoping he would have some pity on me. Sometimes I wonder if there was something that I could have said that would have made him stop. I was hoping the rage that manifested itself so violently would stop once I expressed to him how I was feeling. The screaming didn’t work. He kept on beating me.