Читать книгу Souls of My Young Sisters: - Dawn Marie Daniels - Страница 21

By J. Nerissa Percival

I found my inner strength that night. I learned lessons about myself, the power of prayer, and about the cold-heartedness of men in just a few hours. Lessons that take most women a lifetime to learn, I experienced in one nocturnal episode, at the age of twenty-two.

I fell in love with Bobby when I was fifteen. He was eight years older. His grown-up persona and adult vocabulary, his charm, his smooth sexy voice, his sense of humor, and his constant attention and concern for me made me fall fast and hard for him. We became a couple. He told me that he loved me. I loved him, too.

We played the break up to make up game for seven and a half years. I went to Florida for college. He went to Canada for work. He visited me often in Florida and made arrangements for me to come to Canada to live with him. He even got me a job interview and rented us a beautiful apartment.

Something didn’t feel right living with him. There was always something in my subconscious telling me that this wasn’t where I was meant to be. He wasn’t who I was supposed to be with. I left Canada and returned home. I got my own wonderful two-story apartment. I felt independent. I felt safe. Even though I missed him, I was happy.

A few months later he decided that he’d come back home to live with me. He didn’t want to lose me, and if moving back home was what I wanted, then that’s what he’d do. That pushed aside my doubts about us.

I had broken up with him, for good, the night before what I now refer to as “the incident.” That “something is wrong” feeling returned when he did, and simply would not leave me alone. I was finishing up some laundry when he came home. Some chick had called for him earlier and I hung up on her for her lack of manners. She must have eventually gotten in touch with him, because apparently he was very upset about that. Little did I know that I was just the cook, cleaner, and caretaker of the three kids that weren’t mine, while he had numerous other women for various activities—one back in Canada that he was actually planning to marry, and another that very recently had a son with him. The love of my life was a very busy man, with far too much love for just one woman.

He started talking to me, quite heatedly, about not interfering in his life and in his relationships. Not passing my place, and not being rude to his other women. Then he started conversing with his hands. He pounded them into my head, back, chest, and legs, leaving bright red marks on my skin that later turned deep purple.

He choked me. He watched life drain from my body, than he released his grip and gleamed with power. He took away my cell phone, locked all the doors and windows, and refused to let me out of my own home. He told me that we weren’t through. Our relationship would never be over until he said it was over, and he’d kill me before he ever said that. He told me that if I ever brought another man into his house, he’d kill us both.

I hadn’t felt any fear until that moment, not until the word “kill” was introduced. Now I was terrified for my life. I tried to run from him and out of the apartment. I raced down the stairs and tried to unlock the living room door. He rushed behind me, practically flew down the thirteen stairs from my bedroom, and dragged me back up by my hair. I tried again, and this time he marched me back up the stairs with a pair of scissors piercing my back. He threatened to cut my hair off and teased me with them. Then he tied my hands behind my back and left me on the floor of my bathroom. This was reminiscent of scenes from the hundreds of Lifetime movies I watched every Sunday. I should have known a thousand ways to hinder him and get away, but my mind was void.

I soon realized that he didn’t tie me tightly, so I knew it was just a demonstration of control. Eventually I slid my hands free, returned to the bedroom, and lay on the bed. Tears poured down my cheeks uncontrollably. He touched me as if to comfort me and I felt nauseous. I moved away from him, kept crying, closed my eyes tightly, and started to pray. Almost instantly I felt a remarkable sense of tranquility. I was no longer afraid or timid, and I now had a plan.

I washed my face, then continued to put away the laundry as if nothing had happened. I started down the stairs. He sprang to his feet and ran behind me, ready to stop my escape. I ignored him, began to pack away dishes, and prepared to cook dinner. He watched me for a while, then gradually went back upstairs and turned on the television. I continued to clean pots, pans, and cupboard doors so that he’d think I was busy in the kitchen. He came down to check on me a second time; still, I ignored him. A minute later, the phone rang upstairs. I listened for him to get settled into his discussion, opened and closed a few more cupboards while I slowly opened the kitchen door, and snuck out. I crept over to my neighbor’s apartment. I began to get edgy as I knocked on her door. I envisioned him pulling me back into the apartment by my hair and stabbing me to death.

Finally she answered, slowly opened her kitchen door, and locked it after I entered. Tears fell from my eyes as I walked toward her telephone. I was safe.

J. Nerissa Percival was born and resides on the beautiful Caribbean island of Antigua. Traveling, reading, and writing are her favorite diversions. Nerissa completed a bachelor’s degree in computer science in 2001. In 2006, at the age of twenty-four, she published Butterfly in the Moonlight and Butterfly in the Sunlight.