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CHAPTER 1
Joanna
Sometimes love hurts, or at least that’s what I told myself. Lies. I told myself lies. They were the only thing to get me through the day back then. When things were bad. When I thought it couldn’t get any worse.
But it could.
And it would.
The hour was late, the rain was heavy, my cell phone battery was dead, and my tears were even more difficult to see through than the rain. A part of me felt that I should have waited until morning to make my move, or at least waited until the storm was over. But the survivalist in me knew that the storm inside of that apartment would never end unless I physically removed myself from it.
Sometimes it felt impossible to recall the earlier days. Zander had been such a sweetheart in the beginning. But I supposed a lot of them were like that, all smiles and charm in the beginning, and then a living nightmare once they believed their target was in too deep to get back out.
In my case, I guess I had officially gotten in too deep when I decided to move in with Zander. I hadn’t even known him that long at the time. But, I had honestly thought I was in love. I had thought we were in love. So young and naïve, I’d been fully under the impression that I had never cared about anyone so much, and that I would never have those kinds of feelings for another man as long as I lived.
I had believed that Zander and I were soulmates.
I was wrong.
The first few months of dating had been like something straight from a fairytale. I had been so smitten and amazed to think that I had somehow miraculously stumbled upon my very own real-life Prince Charming. He was handsome, romantic, and always seemed to know exactly what to say and do to sweep me right off my weary feet.
Thus, moving in with him had seemed like a no-brainer.
Unfortunately, shortly after, all the trouble began.
It was subtle at first, like the small romantic gestures slowly starting to come to a stop. I wasn’t getting surprised with flowers quite as often as before. Zander didn’t cuddle and kiss me as much. The cute pet-names ceased. He didn’t plan as many fun date-nights and activities. I had chalked it up to the honeymoon phase of our relationship coming to an end, but never once did I consider that Zander didn’t still love me the same any longer.
But then the arguments started, growing in ferocity each time they occurred. I started to notice how Zander would constantly criticize me and every little thing I did, from complaining about the way I did the dishes, to throwing fits if I left a wet towel on the floor after getting out of the shower, and not approving of the way I made the bed because I tucked the sheets too tight. Then he started telling me that I needed to change the way I looked and dressed…
Nitpicking, which eventually evolved into full-blown power struggles.
Control.
But I kept dealing with it because I thought I loved him and that we would eventually wind up married, raising a family, and living happily ever after. I kept telling myself that rough patches happened. They were normal. All couples had them, and the persistent couples with strong love for one another moved through them.
And then, one day, he hit me.
The first time he hit me was a day I would never forget. He had been working late, but had come home even later due to going out for a night of binge-drinking, a habit I hadn’t been aware he possessed until after moving in with him and finding empty bottles stashed around the apartment.
That particular day, when he had finally made it home, there had been a strange feeling in the air. It was exceptionally muggy, and hard to breathe. When he stepped into our apartment, his mood had seemed to suck out what little air we had.
He had gone straight out to the balcony, overlooking the distant streets and palm trees. He stood there, perfectly still, for a long time. I’d crept up behind him, sensing that he needed to be comforted.
“Rough day? Do you want to talk about it?” I asked, only to have him huff and sneer in return. “How about we go out for dinner?” I suggested, hoping it would take his mind off whatever was bothering him.
“You should have cooked for me already,” he had responded, like I was his personal chef or something. “Is it asking too much for you to have a home-cooked meal waiting for me every once in a while?”
I automatically blamed his attitude on the bad day he’d obviously had. So I had simply cleared my throat and calmly explained that I also worked and therefore didn’t have time to have dinner waiting for him. After all, I had only gotten off work a little while before he had.
“I don’t want any of your excuses,” he had spat in response. “Just get in the damned kitchen and cook me something.”
It had been hard to make excuses for him after that. I had been so stunned that I had laughed in disbelief. Not finding my laughter amusing, without warning Zander had painfully gripped me by the arm and literally dragged me into the kitchen, where he then proceeded to open the refrigerator and work himself into a rage about not having enough food stocked. He pulled out frozen meat from the freezer and threw it at me, just barely missing my face with a pound of ground beef.
His hand, however, didn’t miss my face.
“Stop it! What’s wrong with you?” I had screamed. Two seconds later, I was staggering across the floor from the backhanded slap he landed across my face. Every time that memory resurfaced, I could still feel the terrible stinging across my left cheek.
When the whole ugly ordeal was over, Zander had apologized profusely. He had even shed a few tears, insisting he hadn’t meant any of it. He’d sworn that it had all been stress, and that he just hadn’t been in his right frame of mind. Afterwards, he had hugged me so gently, I couldn’t believe he was the same man. He kissed my cheek repeatedly, made love to me, and ordered me the biggest bouquet of flowers, reverting right back into the guy I had originally fallen in love with. Not before long, I had almost convinced myself that I had only hallucinated him hitting me.
But in due time, that other side of Zander resurfaced. Yet I had been too weak to not fall for his apologies. Furthermore, every time he promised not to lay a hand on me again, I believed him, until the next time.
My patience eventually grew thin, as did my ability to forgive. Consequently, Zander had come to underestimate me. I wasn’t nearly as weak as he once knew I was. I had come to realize that I deserved better than the life he was forcing me to live. I had too much respect for myself to keep letting him put his hands on me whenever we disagreed about something. I refused to be the victim.
Although my eye and jaw still throbbed from Zander’s fists, my heart had stopped aching over him long ago. I wished it hadn’t taken me so long to reach this point, but it was better late than never.
Our last argument, it had been so stupid. This was partially because he’d been drunk, but that was nothing new. Once again, he had come home late, filthy drunk as usual; h
ow he never managed to crash his car and kill himself had become an endless source of frustration for me.
This time, he threw a fit because I hadn’t set the DVR to record one of his favorite television programs that I didn’t even know he watched.
He landed one good blow on me, hard enough to make stars dance in my eyes. But I fought through it, staying conscious and managing to dodge the second strike. Staggering through the apartment, I grabbed my car keys and my cell phone before bolting from the apartment, not caring about the roaring thunder and bright lightning flashing through the sky. I just wanted to get out.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t had time to charge my phone battery before leaving, which resulted in me having to make a stop at the nearest gas station in the pouring rain, hoping the old and outdated payphone located there still worked.
“Good evening, ma’am,” the store clerk said. I hurried inside, keeping my head low despite knowing how odd I looked wearing sunglasses during a thunderstorm. Even though it made me look suspicious, I was grateful for the fact that I always kept a pair of sunglasses in the glove compartment of my car.
“Is everything all right?” the store clerk asked, although he could clearly see that I was far from it. Glancing briefly up at him, I saw that he was a kind looking older man with white hair and concerned eyes.
I fumbled inside of my pocket and pulled out a wrinkled dollar. “Can I please have four quarters?” I asked, my teeth chattering thanks to the rain clinging to my skin, chilling me to the bone.
“Yes, certainly,” he said, retrieving the change from the cash register.
I could sense that he wanted to say something else to me, but I hurried back out the door, not giving him the opportunity. When I reached the payphone, I dialed the first number that came to mind.
