42

It’s the morning after I turned forty-two and I am staring at my face in the bathroom mirror. My eyes are dull and watery, my skin blotchy and red. There’s a rash of broken blood vessels across my forehead, and bruises above my right eye and on the bridge of my nose. I can’t see the bruise behind my ear but it hurts the worst. I’m reminded of just how badly every time I look down at my left hand which I used to cover and protect my ear from the blows he so preciously wrapped in his fist and delivered to me on my birthday. I only have a moment to survey the damage and to lift myself up a bit with a halfhearted breath and a promise not to ever break a promise to myself again.

I am expected back in the bedroom, and I’m already late. If I don’t go back soon, he will be here to fetch me before I can bat my eyelashes. It’s not time now to cry or hold a grudge, not yet. There will be time for me to grieve later but first we dance. We play. Each little game, each little move, splendidly choreographed and agreed upon in advance. It’s my turn and all my knights are well-placed on the board. I recall the playbook as I am met by him in the doorway. He points to the bedroom and follows me back in. I lay down on the bed and wait for him to assume his position, his advantage, the little fix he needs in order to be able to stack any sensibility up against this. He throws his arm across me and squeezes my body close. I force myself to lay there for a spell. Sleep is not possible but rest is necessary.

I’ve done all the right convincing and I am finally permitted to leave the room to make a hot cup of tea, but I am watched closely and it is several more hours before I am left to be alone in the bedroom at last. I turn on the TV but can’t process the affairs which are unfolding on the screen, and I can’t remember the dialogue from one scene to the next. The tea grows cold on the bedside table and he returns a few times throughout the day to warm it for me. He insists that I must eat something and hands me a plate of food which I do eat after a while. I pick up the mug which is steaming from the last round in the microwave and rest it in my lap. My grip on it is rather feeble and I’m not sure if it’s negligent or rebellious. I cry.

I go back to the mirror. It looks the same as it did this morning. It looks the same now, at forty-two, as it did at thirty-two. I struggle to conceive of this. I feel as if I’ve been laying by the side of a car wreck hemorrhaging to death, and slipping in and out of consciousness, for the last ten years. I have no memory of the impact or any idea what it has cost me, and I don’t get why no one has come along to scrape me off the asphalt. I’m expecting rescue breaths and chest compressions but there is no distant call of a siren speeding toward me. I am just a body, my limbs twisted, my blood splattered, gasping for air and praying for my own demise. I’m wasted. I’m a mess. I can’t even.

So I go back to the bedroom and I lay beside him tonight, studying the back of his head, for the last time. I did all the right things today to minimize the injuries sustained from this collision. Tomorrow I will do the next right thing. I will shock my quivering, twitching heart and steady my ravaged breath. I will peel myself off the pavement. I will do the only thing which there is left to do now. I will do what I should have always done. I will burn my white flag. I will keep the enemy at bay.

Tomorrow I will file a protective order with the court. I will raise my red flag. I won’t ever look back. So help me God.