He stood in front of me. He was so close I could feel the heat coming from his face, giant beads of sweat ready to spill from his brow, our noses almost touching. I could see the spit forming around the corners of his mouth as he screamed. The screeching of his voice was drowned out by my disgust at the feel of his hot breath and the dread of his spit hurling toward my face. But I didn’t dare move. Not even the smallest fraction of an inch, because even one wavering, one shuffle of feet, one flinch would have meant weakness. I’ve been backed into a corner, in the center of a large empty room. There is nowhere else to go. Moving would require touching him.
I was trembling with fear and my insides felt like the crashing waves of the ocean against jagged, craggy stone. I wanted to run. I wanted to scream. I wanted to fight. But I didn’t dare move. It took every fiber of my being to remain steady, feet anchored in place, rigid in the middle of the room, with eyes cold and face emotionless. My therapist calls it gray rock.
This isn’t the first time. But it is the worst time. He doesn’t get the response he wants. There is no crying. There is no yelling. There is nothing. I am becoming stone.
So, he leans closer. His sweat and spit are hitting my face now and the gap between our noses has somehow gotten smaller. I can see the pores of his skin, the lines around his eyes, the tight-knit furl of his brow, the bright orange crashing against the cool green of his eyes. But I didn’t dare move. I just stood there focusing all my energy into holding myself back. I’m a hurricane trapped inside a solid rock wall. He begins to retreat with a half-step back. I can see he is getting tired. He is giving up. His face turns toward the door, and he moves back another half step. I feel relief sweep over me. It’s working. I am stone. I feel the crashing waves inside me subside as hope takes over. This fight will soon end, and he’ll leave. I’ll soon be free. I can hold on for just a little longer. Soon he will be gone.
With one swift movement, he raises his open hand and swings toward my face with all his might. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t think. In an instant, I curled my arms around my waist protecting my belly, and rolled into a stone. Shock, disgust, and anger rage across his face in a flash of emotions. But I didn’t dare move. I hold my belly and stare at him with the same cold eyes and emotionless face. Hope has resided and I have hardened. His face is filled with horror as he storms from the room. He didn’t get the response he wanted. The front door slams and there is a thunderous engine roar as he drives off.
The house is quiet. The corner in the center of the room is now spacious and airy. I hear the wooden floors beneath my feet creak as I shift. I feel the sun’s rays warming my cheeks and a gentle breeze from the fan above. The chain on the ceiling light makes a gentle clinking as it taps against the glass lamp shade. He has gone. Now I can finally breathe. I can finally move. Now I am free.
“Shit,” I say, hours later as I’m standing in the bathroom staring at a positive pregnancy test.
-pgh
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