I can almost visualize the gears turning in his head, and I long to know what the inner workings of his mind process through them. Every time he speaks I feel the ground move apart from under my feet, and his words sound like a loaded gun being held to my head by my own shame and guilt. My mind tunes out the manipulative bullshit pouring out of his mouth and fixes on the chiseled structure of his grimey face. For a brief moment, I begin to see the anger seep like a tea bag into his skin, melting the whole thing off to reveal a glimpse of a little boy whose intentions do not match the man I see in front of me. Peter stops cold, and my skin tightens at the sudden silence of the room. He scans my face like a robot, looking for signs of weakness and trying to read the deadpan look on my face, but I keep resisting against his predatory gaze. My fists clench up and I tilt my head down slightly, staring with an intense anger directed at him. Although the two of us stand in a well-lit kitchen, his eyes, once brown, look nothing but black.

“Kate...if you do this, and I’m not going to get in the way if you do, you realize what this means for me, right?” He speaks in a calm, threatening tone of voice that sends chills of caution up my back. I take a single step back, unsure of what might happen next in his version of how this is supposed to play out, and I carefully weigh the options in my head. Scrambling to picture the sheet listed with hotlines and resources I had received from my friend the other day, my brain starts to fire a million thoughts at once, each one knocking out the one that came before it with full force. I could run, right now, out the door and to the police. They surely would be able to help, but that idea causes a war in my head. I can’t fathom the thought of taking this further than it needs to go, and how much it could affect him if this came to light. He interrupts my thoughts with the sound of his booming voice through the kitchen. It starts to crackle.

“Kate...Please, I’m begging you. I’m sorry.”  His eyes well up with tears, and I watch with a blank stare. I feel nothing when I look at him. His presence brings a numbness that feels like my blood and organs are turning to rubber, solidifying and stopping all function inside me. His eyes are darting to the bruises on my hip, which have started to swell with a deep lilac hue, illuminated with a sickening green around the edges. I begin to wonder if he’s ever actually seen his marks on me before. Previously, when we would fight like this, I would leave the house as quick as possible, and he’d be too drunk in the morning to remember. He looks up at me, his face dripping with sweat and fabricated sorrow. It instills a deep-seeded hatred in my bones, but shaking with fear, I clown a smile. Peter seems to take this as an indication of forgiveness, and makes a step towards me. I instinctively spring back, becoming completely aware of how I feel. My heart is racing miles under my skin while I search for a way out, but my head is beating too loud to run. I position myself behind the kitchen island, creating a barrier between us.

“Peter, please don’t come closer.” It takes all the courage I have to speak to him, and I feel that my words are not something he deserves to hear. I don’t want him an inch near me, so I wait for him to obey. He growls under his breath, and takes a slow reach towards the knife on the counter. My fight or flight mode kicks into overdrive, and I howl like a maniac, hoping that someone in one of the apartments next to us is home. Peter makes a leap for me and I begin to scramble across the kitchen, picking up wet strainers and dirty dishes to distance the space between us. He closes the gap quick as lightning, backing me into a corner. He stands over me with his eyes gazing down like lasers, burning my face. I am powerless against his strength, and knowing that the only thing I can do is save my own life, I resort to my dreaded last option. I hang my head, ready to bury my pride, and raise my eyes to meet him with a soft gaze. He kisses me softly, and I try not to resist or show fear. My blood bubbles with agony and disgust, but all he can see is my sick and tortured face, smiling. 

“I love you.” His voice has returned to a natural and reassuring state, but I can sense the monster in his tone. Those three words bring a heaviness that drags my mind down into the gutter. I have nothing left of myself to give to him, nothing left to save. I let him press himself against me, every inch he touches turning to stone. My morals begin to slap against the inside of my body, screaming at me that I am making the wrong choice. I scream back, louder this time, trying to convince them that it is not my choice to make anymore. Ashamed and afraid of what my own values tell me, I convince myself that it is easier to live powerless in his arms than believe in my own humanity. 

“I love you too.”