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A Letter to a Different Me

I am so proud of what you're about to do.

By Sierra JuliettePublished 5 years ago 4 min read
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I see you. You beautiful, broken girl. I see you walk up the stairs, every step a little bit further away from the monster sitting in the living room. He has the TV up, laughing too loud at a show. The sound sends shivers up your spine and churns your stomach. It's too loud, grating against your ears like nails on a chalk board. It is cartoonish, obtuse—like the designated idiot's laugh on a sitcom might sound. You hate it.

I see you reach the landing and open the door into the baby's room. The lamp in the hallway shines through the open door and casts a single, thin wedge of light across the carpet. One small streak of bright in this suffocating world of dark. I see you crawling ever so quietly on your hands and knees to lay down next to his crib, reaching your fingers through the bars to touch his perfect little hands. I know you hurt. I know how, in the darkness of the nursery, you fortify yourself with the knowledge that you will do anything—anything at all—to keep this precious boy and his sweet sister in the next room safe. You cling to that strength like you're hanging off a cliff and it's the very last thing keeping you from falling into a river and disappearing into the rushing water below. And in a way, it is. Sometimes you hold onto that little bit of strength so tight your nails dig into your palms and make them bleed. You carry it deep inside your chest where he can't get to it and when you start to doubt yourself you remind yourself it's there. You're a veritable pendulum of emotion; your brain beating a constant cadence of uncertainty inside your skull: Fear. Question. Doubt. Reinforce. Lie to your husband. Repeat.

But you know you have to do it. You'd sell your soul to provide for these babies. You would walk through flames with a smile on your face if it meant a way out. You feel a little unhinged honestly, but the morbid musings are comforting in an abstract sort of way. There's an ironic power, you think idly to yourself as you stroke your baby's hair, in having no fucks left to give. He wants your life? Take it. You don't want to live if he's a part of it. He wants to beat you? Survived it before. Restrict your food? Go for it. Maybe he shouldn't have taken so much from you that he left you with nothing to lose. This is your Hail Mary Pass. What is it they say again? An animal backed into a corner is the most dangerous one? I don't hate to say it sister—you're backed into a corner with one way out. Not to spoil the ending or anything, but let me tell you: You're gonna take it.

He's a handsome monster, it's true. He's got dark hair and light eyes, a charming smile that conceals a silver tongue. He's even got a generous way about him—when he the mood strikes him. You look at him now and feel nothing. His hands have hurt you so many times, grabbing and pulling and fucking pawing at you for his own personal satisfaction—more often for his own personal punching bag—that even a passing touch from him makes you feel violated. He took the most precious, vulnerable parts of you and used them to break you. His sins are not your fault. His good looks do not make up for his abhorrent disregard of your basic human rights. His hands should never make you flinch if they move too fast. His unfounded anger should not have cowed you and left you unable to look him in the eye. He has done the worst possible thing to you. He has taken away your ability to fight back. He broke you. He did. But when he broke your bones and your spirit, he never knew you'd fix yourself. You'd ossify. Where he splintered you into tiny pieces, you grew back together stronger and harder than before. What brought about the change is a story for another time, all that matters now is that you did it. The painstakingly reconstructed pieces of you that lie along the fault lines deep inside your soul moved infinitesimally, but irreversibly all the same. You ain't about that life no more. Who he has made you into is not who you are. And who you are today is not who you will be six months from now.

Now I see his figure loom across the open door. Even his shadow makes you grind your teeth in disgust. He tells you to get up, it's time for bed. I see your bruised jaw clench as you turn to look at him and quietly stand up, padding back across the carpet. You mustn't let him know. You close the door to the nursery and the thin wedge of light disappears. Obediently, you follow your darling husband to the bedroom. I see you. I know what you're thinking, and I'm so fucking proud of what you're about to do.

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About the Creator

Sierra Juliette

I have some feels

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