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I’ve eaten in this kitchen before. Toured this very mansion before.
I look back at the table and can see myself sitting on the right side of the table, nervous and distant, passing a gravy boat around. Cole Morrison was sitting at my right. It was Thanksgiving almost three years ago.
Cole and I were engaged at the time, and before I called the entire thing off, I did my best to follow my father’s orders. I went to Thanksgiving and met Cole’s family after my father told me the Irish would retaliate against him if I didn’t go. It was a guilt trip, but at the time, I thought it was my only option. I thought my father was asking me sincerely for help rather than manipulating me.
The meal was quiet and awkward. I tried to look more comfortable than I felt, but I was entirely alone.
Meeting the family of the person you are dating is always uncomfortable, but even more so when you aren’t actually dating the man.
Cole’s parents were nice, but cold. Even with Cole, there was a level of distance between all of them, like they were all being cautious not to offend one another or set anyone off.
That night, Cole walked me to my room, and I made a joke. I can’t even remember what it was now—something about the awkwardness of the meal, I’m sure. I expected him to laugh with me. I expected the situation to be something we could bond over.
Instead, Cole exploded.
Until that moment, I’d never seen him be anything other than relaxed and calm. He wasn’t a nice man, but he seemed at ease in most situations. He had a “roll with the punches” kind of vibe.
My joke, however, set him off.
His pale face flushed until I could see his scalp glowing red from under his blonde hair. He stepped forward, towering over me until I had no choice but to press my back against the door and cower.
“Who are you that you can come into my family’s home and judge us?” he snapped. “You don’t know my family. You don’t understand anything about family. Even your own father pimps you out as his whore.”
The rage in his voice took my breath away. I was too shocked to cry or argue. I just stood there, absorbing his fury, and trembling.
“That is what you are, isn’t it?” he spat. “Just a fucking whore. A woman who thinks she is worth something because her father is an important man who stuck his dick in her slut mother.”
I shook my head. Not because I was trying to argue with him, but because I couldn’t understand the source of his anger.
It made Cole even angrier.
“Don’t shake your head at me,” he barked. “I’m not the one who allowed myself to be sold like a common prostitute. Remember that when you want to judge my life and my family. You are only good for spreading your legs, and a whore is all you’ll ever be.”
He was gone almost as soon as the tirade started, leaving me alone for the night to process what he’d said. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized I couldn’t stay with him.
That rage—it came from somewhere deep inside of him. And I could tell immediately it was not an isolated incident. A life with Cole Morrison would be decades of navigating land mines that might make him explode at any time.
Plus, his words had hit home.
My father had used me as a bargaining chip to settle a dispute between himself and another family, and I couldn’t allow it. I couldn’t be forced into a marriage I didn’t want.
That night was the night I decided to run away.
Cole apologized a few days later. He swore that he’d had too much to drink with dinner and was upset about something else, but I didn’t buy it.
So, I left.
I left Cole and my father and New York City. And New York State.
For two years, I ran away from my problems.
And now, here I am. Right back in them. Drowning in them.
If memory serves, the Morrison mansion is in rural upstate New York. The view I have from the dining room of the desolate tree line is the same view I’d have from any window in the house. Screaming won’t do me much good here. No one will hear me.
Still, I try.
I pull at the zip ties until my wrists and ankles burn, and I scream for help until my throat is dry and raw. Until the words feel like razor blades tearing from my chest.
