As the first fist hits my face, one strike after another, the impact is too strong for a cry as my eyes begin to swell. I am unable to cry. Why God? Why God? Why do I deserve this? Why does my flesh and blood hurt so much? Why are my bones aching? Please help me. Somebody help me, rescue me please — but there’s no one there. No one to answer my cries. My tears finally start rolling down my cheek bones. My heart is in complete sadness. I’m all alone and desperate to get away from these thriving, hurting, fast, strong knuckles striking my face. One blow after another, with the pain so strong I feel numb inside. My face feels like that of a boxer’s punching bag being hit repetitively. The blows come fast, strong and furious. My head hits the floor. I hear no sound. This boxer, the man I call my husband, leaves me helpless on the cold floor. I become unconscious feeling left behind. My bruises turn into welts and my cuts bleed slowly from my face. Initially my welts look like bee stings, but within minutes they turn into tiny golf balls. With battle scars embedded on my face from repeated attacks, my face looks like a war zone.
My attacker, my knight in shining armor, the man I married is gone for now. In a fury and rage, he leaves the house, jumps in his car and erratically speeds away. There is now a moment of quiet and peace in the house. I am asleep, drifting in the heavens in peace where I feel no pain. I have been once again knocked around. This life of marriage is no savior from my past. My husband does not embrace me. He rejects me.
There is no fairy tale in this log building. This wood house is not what I call home. It may be made from strong crafted timbers, but on the inside, it is dark, cold, and damp. It has such an eerie feel, as if Satan is lurking in the shadows. The hairs on my arms stand up straight enhancing the fear generated in the darkness. Our log house is set on a private secluded lot on a mountain with a breathtaking view being framed by a proud oak tree.