10. Korine
10
KORINE
“Baby, come away from the window,” Mama says. She’s nestled into the deep cushions of Blake’s recliner, her short legs dangling.
I tear myself away from peeking out for the hundredth time since Blake left. I’m a living, breathing contradiction; so shattered and grief-stricken, I don’t know what to do or say. I don’t know how to act. I’m confused and anxious. Devastated and regretful. Frustrated at my lack of clarity and strength.
All I want to do is hide away. From everyone… including Mama.
My hand comes up to touch my face, and my stomach churns at the grotesque feel of my lumpy, swollen skin. I’ve been avoiding my reflection for this reason—seeing the damage done breaks me down even more.
“Listen, Korine,” Mama says when I take a seat and join her. “We’re not going back, baby. That was the last time. I don’t care about the medical problems or the money issues we’ll have. We’ll figure it out together.”
“You remember?”
Her face dims and then she gives a nod. “I won’t ever forget that man knocking my baby down. Look what he’s done to my beautiful daughter’s face. You can’t, baby… you can’t go back.”
“Mama, I’ve got no money. I’ve got nothing.” My voice breaks, unable to keep speaking.
She reaches for my hand. Her warm touch soothes even if just a little. “We’ll take it a day at a time. Blake wants to help. We need to let him.”
My phone buzzes, alerting me to a voice message that’s been left.
I don’t need to see the number to know who it is—I blocked Ken’s number, which means any attempt of his to call goes straight to voicemail. But I still get the messages. I still receive his dozen-odd voice recordings.
“Just delete that dang message,” Mama says. “We don’t need to hear a word he’s got to say.”
“It could be important.”
I pick up my phone and press the button to play back his recording on speaker.
“Kor,” comes Ken’s voice. It’s deeper than usual, as though weighted down by guilt and regret. “Kor, pick up the phone. We’ve got to talk about this. We can do it wherever you want. Tell me where and when. Things got out of hand, but please don’t play these games. Don’t shut me out. I’ve been driving all over town looking for you. I don’t want anything bad happening while you’re upset and on your own. You know you never think straight in these situations. Just let me know you and Sunny are okay, alright?”
The beep cuts him off as more emotion swells in his tone.
Mom swats her hand at my phone. “That fool won’t trick me. He can kiss my big, fat behind.”
“He’s been driving around looking for us. I wonder if he’s figured out we’re here yet.”
“It don’t matter. He’s pretending like he’s concerned. If he was so god damn concerned, then maybe he should’ve kept his hands to himself!”
“Mama, calm down or you’ll make yourself sick.”
“Delete that message.”
My gaze slides to my phone screen where Ken’s voicemail is pulled up. More notifications come in. He’s sent a slew of texts, begging me to answer and let him know I’m okay.
Kor… where are you?????
I’ve driven around for hours. Kor, come home.
You’re really going to ignore me? We’ve both made mistakes. I’m worried sick. Let’s talk about it.
In the past, when I’ve walked out and the texts and calls started rolling in, I wound up responding. He’d track me down, and I’d return home hoping we’d finally fixed our problems. Our marriage was still salvageable.
It’s humiliating that, even now, as I delete each message he’s sent me, a tiny piece of me wonders what if…
Maybe this time really will be different. We really can work through it.
I force the thought away and slide my phone into my jeans’ pocket. Mama’s been watching me this whole time, her expression downturned.
It becomes a running theme over the next week. Blake and Mama watching me with a hawk’s eye and treating me like I’m made of glass. I stay hidden away in Blake’s trailer except for the quick runs we make to places like the Buy N’ Save.
Any time I’m too silent or withdrawn, they’re making it their mission to engage me. Mama comes over as I lay curled up on the sofa and strokes my hair like she used to when I was a little girl. Blake makes it his mission to provide me whatever he thinks I need in the moment. If it seems like I’m shivering from being too cold, he’s cranking up the heat or bringing me extra blankets. If I seem too somber, he’s trying to make me laugh, trying his damnedest to draw even a smile out of me.
Their concern is appreciated.
But other times, I can’t help craving solitude.
Though Ken's number remains on block and I don’t return his efforts to contact me, it doesn’t erase the heartbreak. It doesn’t make the grim reality of what happened that night an easier pill to swallow.
My husband, the man who took a vow to love and cherish me ’til death parts us, profoundly hurt me.
The vision of his face clenched in rage haunts me. The suffocating grip of his hands around my neck is a feeling I won’t ever forget. I’d started gasping for air and he’d only squeezed harder, his gray eyes lacking any sign of a soul. Not a sliver of love to be found.
Where do I begin processing that the man who was supposed to love me actually hates my guts?
He must if he’s done what he’s done.
…at least that’s what my logical side insists whenever my heart aches.
“Hey,” Blake says, drawing me from my thoughts.
He breezes into the living room and drops down on the opposite end of the sofa. Because I’m lying down, my feet take up part of the cushion he sits down on, but that doesn’t deter him—he merely lifts them up by my ankles and places them in his lap.
It mirrors old times. We were teenagers that often wound up with our bodies touching in some capacity when we watched TV on Mama’s sofa.
“What’re you watching?” he says, staring ahead. The blue light from the TV reflects on his face, the rest of the room dark. He chuckles when he recognizes the scene in the movie. “Assassin’s Gamble. Classic.”
“It came on after the news. You can change the channel.”
“You don’t remember when we saw this at the Sunday matinee for three bucks? It was summer between sophomore and junior year. We’re watching it.”
I push myself into a sitting position and draw my legs back despite Blake’s attempt to keep my sock-clad feet in his lap. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to force yourself to spend time with me. It’s a Friday night. You should be at the club with Mason and the guys.”
A mysterious gleam flickers in Blake’s vivid blue eyes. “Ever consider I’m right where I want to be?”
“You’ve wasted so much of your time on me?—”
“It’s never been a waste in the past. It’s still not a waste today. Kori, do me a favor. Every time you get the urge to feel like you’re a bother, stop yourself. ’Cuz that damn sure ain’t the case. I’ll tell you that now.”
My teeth rake over my bottom lip, my anxiety through the roof. “I’m sorry. My thoughts are all over the place. I’m such a mess.”
“Don’t.”
I blink at him. “Don’t… what?”
“Ever say sorry,” he says. “There’s nothing to apologize for. I bet you’ve spent years doing it—I can see it all over you. How sorry you’ve been. But that ends now, alright? I don’t ever want you to feel sorry. Like you’ve done something wrong. As for where I’m spending Friday night. I’m choosing to be here. Gimme those feet.”
He snatches them back and repositions them in his lap. I’d object if I wasn’t so thrown by the sincerity behind his actions. His touch and his words.
Blake and I have known each other since we were first graders learning how to add and subtract and spell simple words.
I can tell when he’s lying.
…and the fact that he isn’t in this moment is what disrupts my spirit the most. It’s what makes me speechless and unable to process anything.
He means it when he says he’s where he wants to be.
“I guess it’s a sign of how fucked up I am,” I sigh. “The fact that I can’t fathom why you’d want to be around me. Even knowing how close we used to be.”
“Ever consider I like being around you? I’ve gone ten damn years without the privilege, and now I’m taking advantage.”
“That’s a much needed boost to my self-esteem.”
He rubs the ball of my foot out of what could only be absentminded affection. “How’d it happen, Kori? How’d you wind up with him?”
“Blake—”
“You left for college—you left me and everything behind. I always imagined you’d be some engineer working for some multibillion-dollar company. I always hoped you wouldn’t be dating some guy equally as great as you are. But never expected somebody like… him.”
“That makes two of us. Ken wasn’t in my plans. Dad passed my sophomore year in college. I was hours away from home. Mom was in Houston, and my brother had moved overseas for a work opportunity. I felt so alone. I was a mess.”
“You could’ve reached out to me. I would’ve been there.”
“I know you would’ve. And maybe that’s why I didn’t. Because it just felt complicated going back. I had convinced myself I only wanted to look forward.”
Blake’s disappointment drips from him. “Then what?”
“One day, when I was visiting Dad’s grave, there he was. Ken appeared with a flower. He offered his condolences. He was so kind, so compassionate… so different from the guys at school. He was a rookie on the force. He mentioned he’d seen me around the campus area when responding to a disturbance. He said he just had to talk to me,” I explain. “I’ve wondered if… maybe it was all a lie. He saw a young woman at a low point and knew he could sink his hooks into me.”
“When did he put his hands on you?”
“That’s the thing. Ken wasn’t always abusive. At least not physically. I think—on some level—he was always emotionally manipulative. Always a little controlling. But it was over small things. So I brushed it off. Stuff like what I wore and if a guy was too friendly. He would guilt trip me. Make me feel like I was doing it on purpose to hurt him.”
“And you’d feel bad about it,” Blake predicts.
I nod, feeling foolish at the memories. “You were my only serious boyfriend. Anyone else like Jordan was never serious and didn’t count. I was so busy with school my freshman year of college I barely spoke to another guy, let alone dated. I had no idea what Ken was doing. I was too inexperienced and vulnerable to catch on. Then, summer before senior year, he proposed. I told him I wanted to wait a while. A few years to get my career started. But that wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear. We had a huge fight about it. It was maybe the first time he really got hurtful with me—as in raised his voice and lost his temper. He smashed things and stormed out. I should’ve known. But then I started questioning myself. Maybe I was being unreasonable.”
“I can tell where this is going,” he says. His warm touch on my feet has become soothing even as I rehash my trauma. His palm slides along the pad of my feet and gives me the encouragement I need to keep going.
“We compromised— or I thought it was a compromise. We waited ’til graduation, then we got married. I was twenty-two. I moved into Ken’s home, because he said his home was my home now. I believed him.” I pause to let out another breath that feels painful to my lungs. “I did get a job initially. I was working as a mechanical engineer for a local automotive company. That was around the time Mama’s health took a steep decline. Natural causes but also the trauma from losing Dad didn’t help. Ken insisted she move in with us. It seemed like such a selfless sacrifice on his part. But I didn’t realize the trap he was setting.
“When her health got so bad she could barely be alone, Ken suggested I quit my job. I could take care of her full time. He argued it’d save us the costs of a full-time home nurse or nursing facility. We moved a couple times—always for his career—but always to places that felt more isolating. It became normal that my only contact each day was with Ken and Mama. He’d grow angry if I spoke too long to anybody else. Especially any other men. Once, he even got mad at me for flirting with the mailman. Flirting —that’s the word he used.”
“I’m guessing he still made it your fault.”
“Every time. We started trying for a family. It was mostly Ken’s idea. He wanted to project a family image for his career. We struggled to conceive. The doctor’s were puzzled. I took so many tests trying to figure out what was wrong with me. But Ken refused to be tested too. He insisted it was me. That was around the time he really started changing—it’s like he began to hate me because I couldn’t complete his perfect picture of what life could be. The first afternoon he ever put his hands on me, we’d come from another clinic and gotten into an argument about his refusal to take the test for his sperm count. He backhanded me and I saw stars. Then he immediately apologized. He was horrified. He cried about it. Got down on his knees and begged me to forgive him. Said he couldn’t live without me.”
Blake’s anger has emerged. He’s tensed up. Even his grip on my foot has gone from gentle and affectionate to stiff. He’s restraining himself, but it’s by a thin thread.
“I believed him,” I mumble. “And… and from there it slowly escalated. It was over a few years. For a while he would apologize—he would seem so sorry. Then the apologies stopped coming. He’d only grow angrier. To the point sometimes even my presence seemed to enrage him. I took the blame for so many things. So many times he’d fly into a rage, and I didn’t even understand what he wanted. By the time it got so bad he was leaving me… well, like you saw me that night… I just… I felt so defeated. So beatdown emotionally I couldn’t get back up. Where would Mama and I even go? How would we survive?”
“You could’ve come here. You could’ve turned up at any time,” Blake says, catching my gaze. My heart aches as we stare at each other and I feel his sincerity. “I wish you would’ve. I wish you’d come sooner.”
“Me too,” I whisper.
And it’s the truth—I do wish I’d had enough self-worth to leave Ken sooner than I did. That I’d stuck to my decision the few times I tried to leave instead of letting him fool me into returning home again.
“Abuse can be funny,” I say, sitting up on the sofa. My smile’s a dark one, almost bitter. “You normalize it to make sense of it. The longer you stay, the harder it becomes to leave. After a while, it just becomes this part of your existence that you learn to live with, because escape just feels more and more out of reach. More impossible.”
Blake opens his arms to draw me into him. He kisses the top of my head. “I get it. How easy it can be to just… swallow it down. Just to survive another day. For years I told myself Bill’s temper toughened me up. Only a coward would cry.”
“I remember.”
“You’re the one who taught me it was okay to hurt,” he says. “That I had to come clean about what was happening to find a way to make it stop.”
“Ironic you’re doing the same for me now.”
“That’s what best friends do.”
After such a heavy heart to heart, we eventually return our attention to the TV as if there’s been no interruption. I lay back down on my side, curling my arm under the pillow.
We watch the movie just like this.
In silence with my feet propped in his lap and our gazes glued to the screen. But it’s not an uncomfortable silence. It feels natural.
Calming.
Every so often, his fingers still skim over the ball of my feet, teasing me like he’s so often done in the past. So many times we did end up like this, with me curled up and him keeping my feet planted in his lap.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
The movie plays late into the night. For those few hours, I’m forgetting about my trauma and focusing on the characters and storyline. We fall asleep in place on the sofa, with my legs stretched out into Blake’s lap and his head drooped to one side.
When we wake hours later in the middle of the night, Blake casts me a sleepy smile and then pulls the blanket over me before he gets up and wanders over to the nearest window.
I’d like to say I stay up with him, but that’d be a lie. I slip back off to sleep, cocooned in the warmth of the blanket he’s thrown over me.
Our interactions play out like this—Blake seeking to make me feel better and me reluctant to accept such unencumbered kindness.
“I’ll help,” I volunteer one morning as Blake makes the coffee.
He’s gotten into the habit of cooking Mama and me breakfast. Despite our offers to take over, he’s insisted on doing it alone. But after a week, I finally wear him down, coming up on his left side and taking the coffee mugs from his grasp.
Our fingers brush. An unintentional but immediate bout of nerves flicker through me. A familiar reaction whenever his skin meets my skin in any way. In the past, it confused me. To this day, nothing’s changed.
I aim a small, hesitant smile at him.
“Let me,” I say. “It’ll give me something to do.”
He returns my smile with one that forms not only on his mouth, but in his eyes. Humor sparkles in them, the furrow of his brow easing up, and he gives a nod.
“Alright. Coffee’s all you this morning. I’ll get started on the eggs.”
We work in tandem. Blake scrambling up a bowl of half a dozen of eggs, adding pinches of pepper and salt before he pours it onto the hot skillet.
“You know,” he says, “we need to get your things. Have you been thinking about when you want to go by?”
I freeze as I press the on button on the coffee machine and it launches into brewing the coffee grounds. The trickling noises it produces serves as filler for our conversation as I figure out an answer to his question.
“I haven’t thought much about it.”
“We need to do it,” he says. “Sooner rather than later.”
“I’d rather not.”
“You wouldn’t be going alone. I’d be with you. Hell, some of the guys from the club’ll come too. Just to make sure no shit pops off?—”
“Blake,” I breathe, shaking my head.
“Kori,” he says, his tone much firmer than mine. “If you’ve still got your things there, it’s a door left open. It’s leaving things unresolved. We need to get you removed from that situation.”
Tension hardens my bones. My movements become stiff and unnatural as I reach for the coffee mugs and begin pouring. I miss the cup and spill some onto the counter.
The worst part is the fact that I’m fully aware Blake sees me—he’s watching as I tense up into some malfunctioning robot that can’t even pour a damn cup of coffee the right way. Even more confusingly, my head is polluted with thoughts about what Ken would do in this moment.
The anxiety I’m already living with shoots through the roof. The mug in my hand slips out of my grasp altogether and shatters on the tiled floor.
“Oh my god,” I choke out. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to break it. I’ll clean it up right now?—”
“Kori—”’
“I’ll sweep it up,” I say desperately, bustling from the kitchen to the hall closet. “I’ll make more coffee. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Blake catches me on passing. His fingers shut around my forearm and he slows me down to a complete stop. “Kori, what did I tell you about apologizing? I’m not angry, okay? Accidents happen. I’m more concerned about you. You’re shaking.”
So I am.
I’ve gone from stiff as a board to shaking chihuahua in five seconds flat. It’s not until Blake points it out that I realize I’m a jittery, panicked mess. My heart’s twitching in my chest and I’ve started wringing my hands.
Once I realize this, I drop them to my sides, forcing myself to stop the nervous habit.
The most embarrassing part is the pity in Blake’s eyes—he’d say differently, but it’s there in the deep, sparkling blue of them—the sad feelings he has witnessing me like this.
I don’t want to be pitied. I don’t want to be treated like I’m fragile.
But it’s my fault. I’ve behaved like I am.
I swallow and drop my gaze from his. “I don’t know how to act, Blake. Maybe I need to be alone. Check in at some motel and just…”
…wallow in misery.
I don’t finish my train of thought.
“Hey,” he says, cupping my chin and lifting my gaze back to his. “I want you to be yourself. But what I don’t want is for you to feel you have to act in fear. I promise I’m not letting anything happen to you, Kori. You’re safe here, okay?”
My heart fills with warmth and affection peering into his gaze. Guilt nags at me too, chastising me for ever thinking there was pity on Blake’s part. He’s my best friend. Always has been and always will be—he doesn’t pity me, just like I never pitied him when we were kids. I always wanted what was best for him.
He wants what’s best for me.
I give him the only smile I’m capable of. A slight quirk of my lips. “Thank you for understanding.”
“We’ll talk more about it later. Should we wake Sunny up now or let her sleep in some more?”
I never get a chance to answer. A light fist double taps at the door and two silhouettes appear in the sheer curtains covering the window.
Blake must know who it is. He leaves me in the kitchen to go answer without an ounce of surprise.
“Mace, brother.” He opens his arms for a quick brotherly hug, then steps aside to let Mason enter.
He’s not alone. A very pretty, tall, curvy Black woman I’ve never seen before enters along with him. She drips with curiosity as she glances around the trailer, her hands stowed inside the pockets of a leather bomber jacket and her honey-colored hair pulled into a messy bun.
Her eyes light up when she sees me, her lips cracking a smile. “You must be Korine. I’m Sydney.”
She holds up a hand in a wave. I can’t hide my confusion quick enough as I glance over to Blake.
Mason answers first. He hasn’t changed in the last decade since I’ve seen him—except he’s grown a few inches taller, gotten more tattoos, and packed on even more muscle than he had in high school. His green eyes flash with amusement as he juts his chin at the Black woman he’s come with.
“Sydney’s my old lady. I brought her by to meet you ’cuz I figured you’d be bored outta your mind if it was just me and Cash shooting the shit.”
It’s an excuse.
I can pick up that much. Blake invited Mason over to talk club business and asked if he’d bring his girlfriend to get through to me. Woman to woman.
I know this for sure when minutes pass and the guys head outside to check out the bike Mason’s rode in on. Sydney sits down at the kitchen table with me over coffee. The sympathetic looks she gives me tells me she knows. Which means Mason knows.
Maybe the whole club.
It shouldn’t bother me; I shouldn’t care what anyone else thinks.
Yet I do. My bruises haven’t healed all the way. The swelling’s still prominent along my cheek. The split in my lip hasn’t finished closing up.
I sigh, peering down into the contents of my coffee mug. “Give it to me straight, Sydney. They brought you along to talk sense into me, didn’t they?”
Sydney’s eyes widen. “I’m here because it’s a Tuesday morning and I had nothing else?—”
I pin her with a stern stare. “Be honest.”
For half a second, she seems tempted to keep the charade up before conceding with a sigh and shrug. “It was Mace’s idea. He figured it might be easier if a woman talked to you. Somebody impartial on the situation.”
“Have you ever had a man you loved hit you?”
She frowns, then shakes her head.
“Then what do you know about my situation?” I snap. “What can you say that’ll change anything? My husband is probably out searching for me as we speak. I took his name and I wear his ring. We made vows.”
“I might not know what it’s like to be in your situation, but can I ask you one thing—would you ever hurt somebody you love?”
“Not by choice?—”
“Because he chose to hurt you, you realize that, right?” she interrupts sharply. A take-no-nonsense attitude emerges from her, which explains how she’s wound up as Mason’s old lady. He’d trample all over any other kind of woman. She leans closer across the table, staring me down with a hard, challenging stare. “Your husband chose to break his vows and he hurt you.
“From what I hear, he’s done it many times before. He’ll keep doing it—and worse—if you don’t walk away. The Kings have got your back. Cash’s got your back. I don’t even fucking know you, and I’ve got your back. But first, you’ve got to put those big girl panties on and woman up and leave his ass for good. The question is, are you ready or are you going back to being his punching bag?”
I can only blink in response at her words. She goes off like she’s been holding in every syllable for a while before she sits up straighter and then calmly sips from her coffee mug.
I… think I like her. Her direct and unfiltered delivery. Her no-nonsense vibe. The layer of compassion and sympathy hidden underneath the alpha-female exterior.
A slow smile spreads on my lips. “I might need to go shopping for a new pair of big girl panties. It’s been a very long time since I’ve worn some.”
She laughs. “That can be arranged. There’s got to be a sale somewhere. Maybe Big-Girl-Panties-R-Us.”
I exhale a deep breath and slide fingers over my mess of chin-length curls. “You’re right that you don’t even know me, but here I am unloading my issues on you.”
“It’s okay, you’re with the Kings now. We all look out for each other. Including us old ladies. Have you taken pictures of your injuries?”
“Pictures?” I shake my head. “I never have before…”
“You should. Photo evidence is important,” Sydney explains. “You need to start thinking strategically. If you really are leaving him this time. I’ve never been hit by a man I’ve loved… but I’ve known many women who have. You need to start collecting evidence. You need to start protecting yourself. Go to the police and submit what you have for a paper trail. File a restraining order.”
A dark laugh bubbles out of me. “He’s a cop. I’ve never been able to go to them for help. They’re always his friends.”
“They have to help you. It doesn’t matter if he’s one of theirs. They’re required to treat you like any other victim. Have you filed yet?”
For a second time, I shake my head. “But I need to. There’s so much to do. And I… I feel like such a damn mess. I don’t even know what to do… where to go… I have nothing.”
Sydney’s expression softens. She reaches out to grip my free hand. “We’ve all been there. At the bottom. A few months ago, I was you. I felt so lost. I was alone with nobody I loved left in this world. Then I came here for answers. I wound up finding a home. Somewhere I belonged.”
“You decided to stay?”
“I did. It seemed like the right thing to do. I haven’t regretted a single day.”
“I’ve never known Mason to be in a real relationship.”
Sydney laughs. “So I’ve heard. It’s just about the last thing I expected when I came here… but I couldn’t resist him. He couldn’t resist me. Believe me, we tried. Funny thing is, Mace gets me more than maybe anybody else I’ve ever known. It’s like he’s the other half of me. I’m sure it doesn’t make sense when I try to explain.”
I blink, discovering tears in my eyes.
Sydney might not realize it, but her words resonate with me—deep in my being, as she tells me how Mason feels like her other half, there’s only one man’s face I see in my mind’s eye.
Only one man who has only ever accepted me as I am. Truly, as if he is my other half.
I spent years trying to morph into the perfect woman for Ken. I changed myself in so many different ways just to be what he said he wanted. The docile wife and the doting homemaker with a sparkling home. A doormat who took whatever he dished out and accepted his many affairs.
It was never enough for him. He demanded more. He broke me down ‘til there was no part of myself left.
For eight years I’ve watched as I was ground into dust. I ceased to exist.
He owned me in every sense of the word. In every way you could own a person. I’ve been so under his control, everything I do, say, think aligns with what he wants.
Even now, as I sit and vent to Sydney, it feels as if Ken’s omnipresent.
His control runs that deep.
No more.
An idea materializes as I grow desperate to sever the tether he has on me and my life. Something that will show him—and myself—he no longer controls me or has any say in what I do or who I am.
I rise up from the chair at the kitchen table and wander from the room.
Sydney calls after me. I don’t answer her. I’ve slipped into an almost catatonic state as I pass through the narrow hall that connects one half of the trailer with the other. My hand extends to push open the door to the bathroom. I reach for the shears Blake often uses to trim his golden-brown, shoulder-length hair, and I hold it up to my own.
“What are you—oh!” Sydney gasps. She’s rushed over to check on me, stopping in the doorway to the bathroom. Her shocked reflection shows in the mirror as I snip away at my straggle of chin-length curls.
The locks of hair fall away. The sink basin fills with the evidence of my hack job. I cut until I can’t cut anymore. Only a couple inches of hair remain on my scalp, my own unprofessional version of an off-the-cuff pixie cut.
Ken would be horrified. He’s always hated my hair this short and required I keep it at a minimum chin-length.
In a moment like this, it only emboldens me more. It shows more than anything that I’m really making a change this time. I’m going against his wishes and am no longer under his control…
I breathe a fresh breath into my lungs and drop the pair of shears to the counter with a clang. My fingers slip through my new short crop of hair, my eyes fixed on myself in the mirror. An immediate weight has been lifted from my shoulders; I feel unspeakably lighter.
Even if it’s just fleeting. Even if there’s still so much to process and work through.
The woman staring back at me in the mirror is different from the woman I was seconds ago.
I meet Sydney’s eyes in the reflection of the glass. “I’m ready. For real this time.”