SCI -- Open Topic, Week 2
You weren’t exactly sure how it happened.
You drove out of the city, away from the courthouse and down familiar roads leading home. Except you took a different exit; turned the other way, ended up at work. Your hands shook when they let go of the steering wheel; when you threw the car into park.
She wanted to kill herself.
You wanted to talk to her, the moment the courtroom emptied. Walked over to her on instinct, her eyes growing wide and the small group of supporters narrowing their eyes at you -- a detail you won’t remember for months -- no, a year -- later. The distrust in their eyes and the fear in hers.
“She can’t talk to you,” someone said, their hand gentle on your arm. “You have a PFA against her.”
“I’m sorry,” was all you could managed, the words clumsy on your lips as you walked away from her.
When you found your way to your car, you sat there, unable to breathe. Unable to think of anything aside from She wanted to kill herself. It repeated, rapid succession, then one word at a time, cycling until your face was in your hands and a whimper crawling past your lips.
Your fault, something hissed at the back of your mind. This is all your fault. If you hadn’t left --
Silence, other than the sound of your sobs rising in your throat. No music played; you hadn’t hooked up your phone yet to the speaker. Hadn’t even reached for your keys, which sat in your pocket, digging into your hip as you hunched over the steering wheel. Tears leaked past your fingers, the dampness unsettling, your stomach roiling.
Your fault.
Not your voice whispering it in your mind. Hers, maybe. Her support group’s, maybe. The judge’s, maybe. But not yours. Never yours. It was never your fault, the way she had treated you. It was never your fault, how she had grown to fear you. She pushed you. Made you lash out. Manipulated you. Shaped you.
She wanted to kill herself. Might have even tried to kill herself, considering --
You didn’t want to think about how pissed you had been, when you had received that text weeks ago -- how she had said she was in the hospital and couldn’t take your son. You didn’t want to remember how you had scathingly remarked you hoped she really was in the hospital and not just faking something, just to get out of seeing her son. How you made a joke about how maybe she had realized how awful a human being she was and tried to off herself.
Your breath hitched; the sobs came to a stop. She was a horrible human being. She twisted everything you ever said to her; turned it inside out and shoved it back in your face. Turned you into the antagonist of her narrative when no one else would fill the role. The enemy. The discarded.
But you still loved her. The thought of losing her -- of never seeing her again. Of never possibly, one day, reconciling and developing something resembling friendship instead of this burning, seething distrust and dislike --
You still loved her. Sniffing, you turned the key in the ignition and scrubbed your tears away with your free hand. You backed out of your space and left the courthouse parking garage.
And wound up here, in a small, Wawa parking lot, unable to move once again. Your hands shook as you wiped away more tears. As you unplugged your phone.
You didn’t want to go home yet. You needed a smoothie, you told yourself. Needed to see Mike’s smiling face and chat with him a little; tell him how your court date went. Anything other than going home and sitting in silence and trying not to think she could have been out of your life for good; what that would have meant for you and your child together.
You needed friends. And not friends who had grown to hate her, like your best friends have done. The comfort of work; your home away from home, the family you’ve grown to love and be oh so attached to as they helped rebuild your confidence. You needed that. You needed a -- a --
A semblance of normalcy.
Clearing your throat, you stepped into the store and smiled; waved to Ms. Tina, headed straight for the touch screens. One smoothie. One small conversation with Mike. The tension in your shoulders receded, only a little, but the heaviness in your chest remained behind. She had wanted to kill herself. That’s why she failed to follow through on one of the stipulations of your PFA.
Some part of you wanted to call bullshit. She had never considered herself to be the abuser; only the abused. Not completing her therapy meant sticking up one solid middle finger in the direction of the court; at you. It meant not conceding that maybe she had been the fucked up one, not you.
You couldn’t bring yourself to care.
In that moment, it only mattered she was alive.
You drove out of the city, away from the courthouse and down familiar roads leading home. Except you took a different exit; turned the other way, ended up at work. Your hands shook when they let go of the steering wheel; when you threw the car into park.
She wanted to kill herself.
You wanted to talk to her, the moment the courtroom emptied. Walked over to her on instinct, her eyes growing wide and the small group of supporters narrowing their eyes at you -- a detail you won’t remember for months -- no, a year -- later. The distrust in their eyes and the fear in hers.
“She can’t talk to you,” someone said, their hand gentle on your arm. “You have a PFA against her.”
“I’m sorry,” was all you could managed, the words clumsy on your lips as you walked away from her.
When you found your way to your car, you sat there, unable to breathe. Unable to think of anything aside from She wanted to kill herself. It repeated, rapid succession, then one word at a time, cycling until your face was in your hands and a whimper crawling past your lips.
Your fault, something hissed at the back of your mind. This is all your fault. If you hadn’t left --
Silence, other than the sound of your sobs rising in your throat. No music played; you hadn’t hooked up your phone yet to the speaker. Hadn’t even reached for your keys, which sat in your pocket, digging into your hip as you hunched over the steering wheel. Tears leaked past your fingers, the dampness unsettling, your stomach roiling.
Your fault.
Not your voice whispering it in your mind. Hers, maybe. Her support group’s, maybe. The judge’s, maybe. But not yours. Never yours. It was never your fault, the way she had treated you. It was never your fault, how she had grown to fear you. She pushed you. Made you lash out. Manipulated you. Shaped you.
She wanted to kill herself. Might have even tried to kill herself, considering --
You didn’t want to think about how pissed you had been, when you had received that text weeks ago -- how she had said she was in the hospital and couldn’t take your son. You didn’t want to remember how you had scathingly remarked you hoped she really was in the hospital and not just faking something, just to get out of seeing her son. How you made a joke about how maybe she had realized how awful a human being she was and tried to off herself.
Your breath hitched; the sobs came to a stop. She was a horrible human being. She twisted everything you ever said to her; turned it inside out and shoved it back in your face. Turned you into the antagonist of her narrative when no one else would fill the role. The enemy. The discarded.
But you still loved her. The thought of losing her -- of never seeing her again. Of never possibly, one day, reconciling and developing something resembling friendship instead of this burning, seething distrust and dislike --
You still loved her. Sniffing, you turned the key in the ignition and scrubbed your tears away with your free hand. You backed out of your space and left the courthouse parking garage.
And wound up here, in a small, Wawa parking lot, unable to move once again. Your hands shook as you wiped away more tears. As you unplugged your phone.
You didn’t want to go home yet. You needed a smoothie, you told yourself. Needed to see Mike’s smiling face and chat with him a little; tell him how your court date went. Anything other than going home and sitting in silence and trying not to think she could have been out of your life for good; what that would have meant for you and your child together.
You needed friends. And not friends who had grown to hate her, like your best friends have done. The comfort of work; your home away from home, the family you’ve grown to love and be oh so attached to as they helped rebuild your confidence. You needed that. You needed a -- a --
A semblance of normalcy.
Clearing your throat, you stepped into the store and smiled; waved to Ms. Tina, headed straight for the touch screens. One smoothie. One small conversation with Mike. The tension in your shoulders receded, only a little, but the heaviness in your chest remained behind. She had wanted to kill herself. That’s why she failed to follow through on one of the stipulations of your PFA.
Some part of you wanted to call bullshit. She had never considered herself to be the abuser; only the abused. Not completing her therapy meant sticking up one solid middle finger in the direction of the court; at you. It meant not conceding that maybe she had been the fucked up one, not you.
You couldn’t bring yourself to care.
In that moment, it only mattered she was alive.