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My eyes lock on the necklace dangling from my throat.
I must’ve fallen asleep at some point because it wasn’t on me when we got into bed.
It feels foreign against my skin.
It’s a token of horrific proportions. It’s what I held onto so I never forget the pain I’ve been through.
I tug at it, easily breaking the chain. I’ve never worn the thing a day in my life. It’s not a prize, not a sentimental possession I hold dear. It’s how I’ve always hurt myself in the past.
Liana valued it. According to her diary, it was the apology gift my dad gave her to keep her mouth shut after raping her the first time. It was payment for abuse. It was the first of many, and as a child, I sort of hated my sister for the gifts she always got because I had no clue what they stood for. I didn’t understand how some days, she was so proud of the trinkets, and others, she was burning them in the backyard while our father was at work. I thought she was wasteful, petty, and spoiled. I know now she was hurting with a pain so deep no one could help her.
The necklace clinks on the counter when I drop it there, but brushing my skin where it touched doesn’t make the disgust go away. Angel has no idea how much I hate the thing, but I can’t help but be a little angry for finding it around my neck.
I swallow down that disgust and take a true long look at myself.
For decades I’ve avoided any prolonged looks in the mirror. I’ve always hated what I saw there. It was always a reminder of the pain, of the failures, of the abuse I’ve been ashamed to admit to.
Maybe my dad knew he didn’t have to hurt me the way he did Liana because I was going to be an expert at doing that to myself.
Today isn’t one of my bad days, and I’m grateful for that. These contemplations would be dangerous on a bad day.
I find myself smiling at my reflection, and it’s not forced. It isn’t an attempt to practice fooling people I may run into.
It’s real, true. It’s happiness.
I’m not the type to have lightbulb moments. I pay too much attention to things going on around me to be genuinely surprised by much of anything.
But I’m hit in the chest with the fact that I want what Angel is offering.
I want the attention, the life we could have. I want the baby growing inside of me, and if he didn’t want a child with me, he never would’ve cut my implant out of my arm.
He wanted it before he cut me loose, before I left.
He’s said it so many times. I’m his. I’m never allowed to leave. He’ll hunt me down and drag me back.
How am I only now seeing it?
Is it because I never thought I could find happiness? Because I deem myself unworthy of anything good?
My skin flushes pink with all the possibilities, my hands trembling a little as the thought puts a smile on my face.
I search my eyes in the mirror, afraid this is just another manic episode where everything is perfect, and tomorrow I’ll suffer the crash.
I straighten, refusing to believe that. I’m so sick and tired of the apocalyptic thoughts that drag me down, the worry of what tomorrow will bring.
Angel would die to protect me, to protect us, and somehow it’s taken me this long to fully understand it.
I feel lighter on my feet than I can ever remember as I make my way back into the bedroom.
He’s asleep, his dark lashes fanned across his cheekbones, arm outstretched as if he is searching for me in his sleep, despite the standing rule that we don’t touch each other during the night unless it’s for him to wake me because he has needs.
I’ve spent so much time looking for the bad in him, I haven’t paid much attention to the good. I see it. I’m not blind, but I convinced myself it was a manipulation.
The breakfast he cooks, the sporadic smiles he gives me, the way even when he’s rough with me, his eyes are searching my face to determine if I’m hurting too much but refuse to tap out because of pride.
It has fucking been right in my face all along.
I don’t know when the change happened, when his hatred for me dulled enough for him to begin to care, but it’s there, and it has been for a while.
