Fic: No More
Title: No More
Fandom: Original
Summary: "It was a pattern that he had, a habit, and the love she had for him obviously wasn’t enough to break it." The story of a woman's fall into abuse, and then her decision to stop it.
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1,000 words
Genres: angst, general, a tad of humor
A/N: My dear
everydayamerica wrote a story quite a while ago about abuse. And even back then, I got to thinking about what I personally would do if I ever had the misfortune of coming up against an abusive person... If you know me at all, you know that I'm a fighter. You know that I don't take much sitting down. So finally, I've managed to write a fic. Read and enjoy.
The first time, she made excuses for him. It was an accident, she swore. He couldn’t possibly have meant it. Even though she called it an accident, she told no one the truth. The bruise that he left on her cheek was too obviously fist-sized to pass as anything else, so she told everybody she’d gotten into a fist-fight in a bar Friday night. It wasn’t so far from the truth-she’d really gotten it Friday night when her boyfriend came home from the bar.
The second time, too, she deemed an accident. He’d just grabbed her a little harder than he intended. Those bruises, situated on her upper arms, were easy to hide and she thanked God she didn’t have to make excuses to anyone but herself.
The third time, when his blows rained as heavy upon her abdomen as the whiskey was on his breath, she began to consider that this might be intentional, but that it might soon end. Those bruises were also easy to conceal, even though the soreness that accompanied them was not. Still, she had a ready cache of excuses-over-exercise, menstrual pain, and even a stomach ache. Only a few eyebrows were raised and no one protested the excuse.
The fourth time, her split lip and bruised chin were impossible to disguise. This time, her excuse-that she tripped and fell down the stairs at home-earned a few more raised eyebrows and a few inquires. But she handled and fielded them all just fine and her story never slipped. This was the time when she knew that he meant to hit her, but she still clung to the hope that it would stop soon.
But, in spite of her hope, it happened a fifth time, leaving her with a black eye among other scattered bruises. She knew then that this wasn’t going to stop coming from him. It was a pattern that he had, a habit, and the love she had for him obviously wasn’t enough to break it.
This time, her friends asked all of the questions she knew they would. She didn’t answer a single one, though. She couldn’t form the words.
Then one day, as her bruises were healing, she happened to run into one of the town’s preachers. She’d grown up in this man’s church with her parents, and had even kept close with him in her adult years until her boyfriend “suggested” that she stay away. Fear had kept her from seeing the beloved preacher, but now she was caught out in the open with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
He spotted her instantly and called out her name with a big smile. As he hurried towards her, she returned the smile lightly. But as he got closer, the smile disappeared from his wrinkled face as he lightly touched her healing bruises.
“Who did this to you?” he asked sharply, his deep voice coated by a tone that she associated with his fiery passion during Sunday morning sermons.
Unable to answer, she simply swallowed.
“My dear, who did this to you?” he demanded even harder. She knew that his wrinkled forehead was furrowing angrily, and his sagging lips were pursed. “It’s that awful boy you’re dating, isn’t it? I knew he was trouble, Mary.”
She still couldn’t form the words to respond, and her eyes dropped to the ground.
But the preacher took her chin in his hand and turned her back to face him. “You cannot take this, my dear,” he said solemnly. “God has given that man no right to hit you. You have to let him know that. Defend yourself.” He smiled weakly. “Promise me you’ll do that. Yes?”
Numbly, she nodded and returned his weak smile.
The preacher kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Good. God loves you and so do I, my dear.”
His words stuck with her for the rest of the day, echoing again and again in her mind. She wanted to do what the preacher had said-stand up and defend herself-but she wasn’t sure if she really could. He was so much bigger than she was and he had a hold on her that she couldn’t deny.
The thought of standing up to him made her tremble. But then again, so did the thought of being beat again.
That night, she was in the kitchen, cleaning up, when the front door crashed open in a very familiar way. Her eyes instantly flicked towards the back door-an easy escape. But her legs refused to move, so she stood there until he came around the corner.
“You,” he said sharply, his tone laced with accusation. He closed the distance between them until he was inches from her face and she could clearly smell the beer on his breath. “You spoke to that preacher today, didn’t you? After I told you not to! You stupid woman!” He slapped her hard across the face with the back of his hand.
Her head reeled from the blow and she blinked at the stinging pain. And in that instant, all of her fears were silenced and she wondered when she’d ever gotten weak enough to endure this.
She came back around towards him with fire in her eyes and fight in her heart.
She was a good six inches shorter than him, but her knee had no trouble finding its way forcefully into his stomach. His kneecaps were also easy targets. Her fists to his face felt gloriously freeing. One more sharp blow to his back with her elbows and he was down on the floor, sprawled in a cowardly position that she vowed she’d never take again.
A burden had been lifted from her shoulders, and as she sucked blood off of one of her busted knuckles, she reveled in this newfound feeling of freedom. He had no more hold over her. She was taking no more abuse from him or anyone else.
No more, she vowed.
No more.
“Yeah, I talked to the preacher today,” she said. “He sends his regards.”
Fandom: Original
Summary: "It was a pattern that he had, a habit, and the love she had for him obviously wasn’t enough to break it." The story of a woman's fall into abuse, and then her decision to stop it.
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1,000 words
Genres: angst, general, a tad of humor
A/N: My dear
everydayamerica wrote a story quite a while ago about abuse. And even back then, I got to thinking about what I personally would do if I ever had the misfortune of coming up against an abusive person... If you know me at all, you know that I'm a fighter. You know that I don't take much sitting down. So finally, I've managed to write a fic. Read and enjoy.
The first time, she made excuses for him. It was an accident, she swore. He couldn’t possibly have meant it. Even though she called it an accident, she told no one the truth. The bruise that he left on her cheek was too obviously fist-sized to pass as anything else, so she told everybody she’d gotten into a fist-fight in a bar Friday night. It wasn’t so far from the truth-she’d really gotten it Friday night when her boyfriend came home from the bar.
The second time, too, she deemed an accident. He’d just grabbed her a little harder than he intended. Those bruises, situated on her upper arms, were easy to hide and she thanked God she didn’t have to make excuses to anyone but herself.
The third time, when his blows rained as heavy upon her abdomen as the whiskey was on his breath, she began to consider that this might be intentional, but that it might soon end. Those bruises were also easy to conceal, even though the soreness that accompanied them was not. Still, she had a ready cache of excuses-over-exercise, menstrual pain, and even a stomach ache. Only a few eyebrows were raised and no one protested the excuse.
The fourth time, her split lip and bruised chin were impossible to disguise. This time, her excuse-that she tripped and fell down the stairs at home-earned a few more raised eyebrows and a few inquires. But she handled and fielded them all just fine and her story never slipped. This was the time when she knew that he meant to hit her, but she still clung to the hope that it would stop soon.
But, in spite of her hope, it happened a fifth time, leaving her with a black eye among other scattered bruises. She knew then that this wasn’t going to stop coming from him. It was a pattern that he had, a habit, and the love she had for him obviously wasn’t enough to break it.
This time, her friends asked all of the questions she knew they would. She didn’t answer a single one, though. She couldn’t form the words.
Then one day, as her bruises were healing, she happened to run into one of the town’s preachers. She’d grown up in this man’s church with her parents, and had even kept close with him in her adult years until her boyfriend “suggested” that she stay away. Fear had kept her from seeing the beloved preacher, but now she was caught out in the open with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
He spotted her instantly and called out her name with a big smile. As he hurried towards her, she returned the smile lightly. But as he got closer, the smile disappeared from his wrinkled face as he lightly touched her healing bruises.
“Who did this to you?” he asked sharply, his deep voice coated by a tone that she associated with his fiery passion during Sunday morning sermons.
Unable to answer, she simply swallowed.
“My dear, who did this to you?” he demanded even harder. She knew that his wrinkled forehead was furrowing angrily, and his sagging lips were pursed. “It’s that awful boy you’re dating, isn’t it? I knew he was trouble, Mary.”
She still couldn’t form the words to respond, and her eyes dropped to the ground.
But the preacher took her chin in his hand and turned her back to face him. “You cannot take this, my dear,” he said solemnly. “God has given that man no right to hit you. You have to let him know that. Defend yourself.” He smiled weakly. “Promise me you’ll do that. Yes?”
Numbly, she nodded and returned his weak smile.
The preacher kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Good. God loves you and so do I, my dear.”
His words stuck with her for the rest of the day, echoing again and again in her mind. She wanted to do what the preacher had said-stand up and defend herself-but she wasn’t sure if she really could. He was so much bigger than she was and he had a hold on her that she couldn’t deny.
The thought of standing up to him made her tremble. But then again, so did the thought of being beat again.
That night, she was in the kitchen, cleaning up, when the front door crashed open in a very familiar way. Her eyes instantly flicked towards the back door-an easy escape. But her legs refused to move, so she stood there until he came around the corner.
“You,” he said sharply, his tone laced with accusation. He closed the distance between them until he was inches from her face and she could clearly smell the beer on his breath. “You spoke to that preacher today, didn’t you? After I told you not to! You stupid woman!” He slapped her hard across the face with the back of his hand.
Her head reeled from the blow and she blinked at the stinging pain. And in that instant, all of her fears were silenced and she wondered when she’d ever gotten weak enough to endure this.
She came back around towards him with fire in her eyes and fight in her heart.
She was a good six inches shorter than him, but her knee had no trouble finding its way forcefully into his stomach. His kneecaps were also easy targets. Her fists to his face felt gloriously freeing. One more sharp blow to his back with her elbows and he was down on the floor, sprawled in a cowardly position that she vowed she’d never take again.
A burden had been lifted from her shoulders, and as she sucked blood off of one of her busted knuckles, she reveled in this newfound feeling of freedom. He had no more hold over her. She was taking no more abuse from him or anyone else.
No more, she vowed.
No more.
“Yeah, I talked to the preacher today,” she said. “He sends his regards.”