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By: Megan Dorogi

 

I see it, all the time. Him outside my door in a dark gray T-shirt, knife in one hand hammer in the other, moments from shattering the fragile doorframe and glass, poised and determined. It’s been a while but I don’t forget, how could I? When your life flashes by your eyes, you grip the memory with all your soul and strength. I cry. I try my best to convince myself it was a dream and that I am safe, I am steady, I am okay, and I will be okay, but I won’t. He will be back, he told me so, and so I sit awake in my bed every night counting down the moments, reciting my goodbyes, listing the blessings I took for granted. I stay awake from the overbearing anxiety but the nightmare never ends, my parents don’t do well with comforting me. They never were, so they leave me alone. I am alone. I run my fingers over the ridges of my scars now light pink and puffy and healed, but still vivid with pain. They are reminders. At night I make plans, where to run, what to do, where to hide, but I always seem to detect their flaws. There is no escape. I stay awake to protect myself, to cloud the fear with alertness, but also to soak up every minute of life I can wrap my fingers around before his wrap around my neck. My parents are leaving in the morning. They needed a vacation. It’s been two years. I’m not ready but they are; he is. Tennessee to Michigan is a manageable distance, and I don’t doubt he’s forgotten me. So I’ll remain here, awake, knife in one hand, hammer in the other, till he, in his dark gray T-shirt, returns.

 

 

 

Photo Source: Karla Nolan, dailypainters.com