Past the Dragon

Read Ophelia, the story that started it all.

Warning: mentions of domestic abuse

Smack!

How did I get here?

Smack!

Broken, bloody, and bruised, probably beyond recognition.

Smack!

A woman so destroyed that she willingly wiped up the evidence of her recent beating off the floor.

Smack!

I wince as I turn to face the man that looks like the one I fell in love with all those years ago. It's the only time I see him anymore, when he is lying here asleep, peaceful in his bed.

I haven't considered this our bed in a while, not since the day six months ago when Ophelia gave me hope, a way out at the end of this long, dark tunnel. For so long, I was certain I would die by Hank's hand; it was just a matter of when or where. I would silently beg God with each punch that it would be my last, to let me die when I was unconscious, unaware of the pain.

Those pleas shifted into thanks at some point. With every dollar and part of my escape hidden away, my renewed spark grew bigger and bigger, threatening to set my tortured life aflame.

My body screams as I slip out of the bed, careful not to disturb anything. I do not want Hank to wake up. It is a familiar thought, though the reasons for it have changed over the years. I can not handle another round of sex. He has to go to work so early; let him sleep. I don't want him to beat me again. I can't run if he wakes up.

On silent and painful tiptoes, I make my way into the guest bedroom. My body freezes momentarily when I first walk into the room, poised for another attack like the one hours before. I reach under the bed, dragging out a black hiking bookbag, full of the bare minimum I need to get out of this hell. The burner phone, some cash, chargers, copies of necessary paperwork, hygiene products, and a couple changes of clothing, including the dark hoodie I put on over my pajamas. I wish I was able to change into something more decent, but it'll take too much time. Time I don't have.

I reach into the bag one more time, pulling out a pocketknife, engraved with one word.

Courage.

For a moment, I fantasize about going back into the bedroom and jabbing the knife into Hank. It would all be over.

No. I shake the thought out of my head. I'm not a killer and I won't let Hank turn me into one, especially since it wouldn't free me. I can imagine the noose already around my neck choking whatever goodness I have left.

I stuff the knife into my hoodie's front pocket and prepare myself for the weight I'm about to toss on my bruised back. Part of me suggests making sure I have everything in the pack, but I've already been here longer than I planned. With my escape situated on my back, I start the terrifying trek toward freedom.

It reminds me of one of my favorite books as a kid. A tough princess was banished by a rival king who took control of the castle and was determined to make her way back. There was a scene where she had to pass the dreaded dragon's cave without waking it. I don't remember exactly what happened, but the dragon woke up, and the princess narrowly escaped.

As I approach the opening of my dragon's cave, I pause, making sure he was sleeping as soundly as before. My heart races with each obsessively placed step, slowly carrying me past the threshold. A whispered chant, don't wake up, don't wake up, passes through my busted lips. I'm not like the princess in that story; I'm certain I won't make it past this dragon if he woke up.

Creak! The sound cuts through the silence like an arrow, terrifyingly aimed toward Hank's ears. His body shifts in the bed as mine freezes, turning me into an audience to what could undoubtably be my last moments. Hank, in his sleep, faces me.

Are his eyes open?

I'm going to die today, alone, my history and the truth up for manipulation. Memories flash through my mind, and all I can think about is I shouldn't have believed Hank all those years ago. "I would never hurt you." I heard those words so many times they lost their meaning and I hate the girl so desperate for love she fell for the facade.

My self-deprecating trip down memory lane is cut short by a loud snore. For the first time in a while, genuine laughter threatens to break loose along with a imperceptible sigh that starts to relax my fear-stricken body.

With a renewed fearlessness, I press forward, quickly reaching my final obstacle -- the heavy wooden door I've hated with a passion since Hank picked it out. "Elizabeth, it'll work with the rest of the house; it's perfect." Not wanting to start an argument over something that felt so trivial, I conceded.

Besides, it was, and still is, a gorgeous door. But what I'm sure was Hank's true purpose behind getting the door -- a constant reminder of my weakness -- overshadows the door's exquisite beauty. His laughter, along with you need help opening that, honey mocks me as I place a hand on the knob.

No, Hank, no, I don't need your help. I yank on the door, and for the first time, it opens with ease. I don't allow myself to marvel at the extra strength I seemed to have gained and bolt out the door, only pausing on the top step to prevent the door from slamming behind me.

The air caresses my battered body as I tentatively walk down the rest of the steps, nearly stumbling down at one point. I catch myself and start to run like my dragon of a husband is after me, claws reaching to tear me to shreds.

To Be Continued...

Word Count: 1005 words