Series of snapshots from a relationship that took place over the course of a year. Is anybody reading this? -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
K calmly sat on a foldout chair across the room and watched me collect the scattered pieces of my phone, “Sweetie, you need to be less clumsy. I’ll grab the first aid kit.” That was news to me – as far as he’s concerned, band-aids are what self-pity people wear to seek attention. Also, I am not that clumsy. He dabs Polysporin over the cut above my left eyebrow with a cotton swab, “Does this hurt?” I said nothing. He looked genuinely concerned and gentle all of a sudden, as if the past fifteen minutes had never happened. In this moment, it’s hard to visualize K ever having a temper. He continues to examine the bruises on my arms and neck, shook his head and commented on my being accident-prone. I’m beginning to feel like I am the crazy one. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ “Have a seat, dinner will be ready soon,” I watched him dance around the kitchen, swiftly adding a pinch of salt before stirring the pot with a wooden spoon. He was in a good mood. “I rented a movie for us tonight. I don’t think we should go to Pat’s dinner, you know how much I hate entertaining,” K flashed the same charming smile that easily won over everyone we know. He has that effect on people – my friends couldn’t stop gushing about how charismatic and funny he was, or the fact that he models. People often talk about love at first sight and romanticize the much coveted bad boy who settles down for the right girl. We were that Hollywood Rom-Com couple to everyone else, but there was nothing beautiful about the way in which we remained together. I reached for water on the table, tipping the glass by accident and spilling liquids on the floor. K immediately spun around. I held my breath. “Clumsy. Let’s wipe this up,” he casually tossed a towel towards the spill. I exhaled. He placed a bowl of tomato soup in front of me and massaged his thumb into the back of my neck. I flinched at the touch, dropping the spoon into the bowl and splattering flecks of red on the table. In a split second I was on the floor, chair tipped over, cheeks stinging, the wind knocked out of me. K gripped the wooden spoon now held up in the air, “You fucking retard. Can’t you do anything right? Are you an idiot?” I didn’t shield myself, which seemed to anger him more. The taste of sweat and copper stayed in my mouth like a sticky film as I braced my body for the second blow. It came swiftly, with a loud satisfying strike to the temples. I stayed down looking at the floor. How did I end up here? I looked up but he was gone, leaving the pot to over boil on the stove. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Missed me once. Missed me twice. The third glass hit my elbow and shattered. Blood trickled down my arm. “Did you fuck him? Well, did you?” K pinned my shoulders to the wall, his face inches away from mine. Broken shards dug into the sole of my feet. I can’t do this anymore. “Did he kiss you like this?” He tangled his fingers through my hair, grabbing a handful before biting down hard on my lower lip. As if on reflex, I thrust my knee firmly between his legs. K’s face contorted in pain, easing his grip and falling to the floor. That was the moment I lost it. The next couple minutes that follow can only be described as being on a carousel that is spinning too fast. I huddled with my back against the wall, covering my ears with the palm of my hand as if that would offer either protection or solace. “Stop, stop, stop!” I was sobbing, my voice sounded hoarse and unfamiliar. A dinner plate with potatoes flew towards me – missed. K began hurling plates as if he was casually throwing a Frisbee. In biology, we once watched a video about animal fight or flight instincts. On occasions, a trapped animal with no hopes of escaping will either gnaw off a limb or commit suicide. I reached into the drawer and pulled out a paring knife, held it to my neck as I’ve seen actors do in movies. K stopped what he was doing. The room buzzed. This was it – we were in the eye of the hurricane. We stood still on opposite sides of the kitchen, silent except for my heavy panting. “I’m leaving,” I quivered. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- K sat on the hard tiled floor, a small puddle of blood beside him. “We might need to get you to a hospital. Where do you keep the first aid kit again?” I pressed a dishtowel to the gash on his arm to stop the bleeding.
“I’m sorry, I fucked up. You know I’m not like this,” K held my hand, interlocking his fingers between mine.
I cradled him in the dark, continuing to apply pressure to his wound. K wiped the cold sweat from my forehead with the back of his hand,
“I won’t live without you. I love you. Please don’t leave,” he said. I stayed. | 
