Chapter 6 #2
Then he went further and started calling me names. I was crazy. I was stupid and stubborn. I was too much.
It was all just in private, but one night he said something in front of his friends. Yeah, no one can deal with her fucking antics the way I can.
And that was how he took me to another level. That evening, he pinched me—right on the inner part of my arm. It hurt so much! But he chuckled in my face and said, Relax, I’m just playing.
Instead of embracing me in a hug, he started yanking me to him, the action rough and uncaring. Then it was sex when I didn’t want it. No wasn’t an acceptable answer to him. He wasn’t violent, he was manipulative, persistent, and always guilt-tripping me.
That’s when I started distancing myself. I felt it—something was wrong. It shouldn’t be like that. It shouldn’t hurt to be with someone. But like the conniving little piece of shit that Xavier was, he ran to my father, and together, they formed a consolidated front.
Don’t toss out a good thing over a few disagreements, my father said at dinner one night. Did you do anything to provoke him? Is there a reason why you pushed him to the edge?
I was blind, unable to see how the blame was shifted to me—I could only feel it and knew that it wasn’t right. It was like living on the edge of a knife.
But I stayed.
Until one night, it finally took a dark turn. I caught it out of the corner of my eye—the way his arm swung back and then into me, his large palm clipping me right in the face.
The pain was searing—like being thrown into a bed of nails. It consumed every part of me, and as I stood there, trying to catch my breath and understand what had just happened, Xavier dropped to his knees.
I’m so sorry, Jade! I-I—it was an accident, baby! I’m so sorry! I love you so much! So much!
I gasped while standing at the kitchen counter, disoriented and shocked.
You’re the love of my life.
I just had a moment of blindness.
And I stayed.
So he took it further. Xavier smashed my face into a wall—a moment that really squashed me. It was a Saturday evening and we argued about something. Something stupid and silly, but to him, it was enough to deliver a bruise I couldn’t cover up.
The next week, he manipulated me into sex with him, and he hurt me again, this time in bed. His palm left red marks on my butt cheeks while I tried to get away. Look at you—acting all innocent now. Don’t pretend you’re not loving it.
I wasn’t.
I was begging. Begging him to stop! But he didn’t.
And I still stayed.
I stayed through the bruises that became more frequent.
Through the hair pulling, the pinching, the pushing.
And I listened to him every time he fell to his knees and pleaded with tears in his eyes.
I listened when he said he’d made a mistake and that it was the last time.
I still gave him my time and listened to his lies that I was the love of his life.
I couldn’t sleep well anymore so one night when I lay awake and stared at the ceiling, a strong premonition overcame me—if I didn’t leave him, I would die. But not right away, no. I’d die painfully and slowly.
So in the morning, with a shaking voice and trembling hands, I confronted my dad and told him everything. All the incidents, all the humiliation, the insults, the put-downs, the name-calling. The physical abuse.
My father listened silently while I paced his office and spilled my soul. He didn’t interrupt; he let me get it all out, and then, when he was sure I told him everything, he broke my heart more than anything Xavier could have ever done to me.
He asked me to sit down and started off from afar, telling me that when a woman is with a man, she has a responsibility to be there for him. A duty to be his peace and calm within the chaos. She has a mission—to support the man the way he supports her.
In which of your commitments did you fail?
Because Xavier wouldn’t have become so angry with me if my behavior was of a good woman.
There was no staying after that.
For the first time in my life, I put my foot down. I stormed out of my father’s office and raced straight to Xavier, letting my adrenaline and anger mix together in a dizzying spiral of rage.
He was on his yacht that day and not alone. I waited. I waited for his yacht to dock and when I got on, I almost vomited from the pain and betrayal.
Topless, drunk or drugged women occupied the deck while Xavier sat with one of them on his lap, his tattooed fingers caressing her hips and ass that was barely covered by her bikini thong.
They were chatting about something in hushed voices, both smiling while he whispered some kind of filth into her ear.
His surprised face stared at me, no doubt thinking of excuses, but I caught him red-handed—there were no excuses left.
My fault, huh?
That night, I survived by accident. Like always, he cried and pleaded. I didn’t cheat on you! This is not what it looks like!
My time was running out—I saw the signs, saw him slowly turn into a monster while he barricaded me on his yacht, entangling me in a useless fight.
And it happened again—I knew that look in his eyes. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and dragged me to him, like I was a doll. Just a toy he was angry at.
“You’re not fucking going anywhere, Jade,” he gritted, the strength in his grasp on the verge of ripping my hair out, but I was done. I was finished. I wasn’t going to stay anymore. I wasn’t going to take it. I was going to fucking leave even if I was petrified.
A real physical fight ensued. I thrashed in his arms, damn my hair—he could rip it all out, I didn’t care.
But he was stronger. He was bigger. He was always more powerful than me.
He pinned me down on the floor, muffling my cries with his hand over my mouth.
He ripped my dress and then…he punched me in the nose.
The pain sedated me immediately. Crimson liquid gushed into my eyes and onto my tongue and I lay on the deck of his yacht, weak and powerless. “I’m sorry!” Xavier cried, spreading my legs.
I blinked through the pain, through the inevitability of what was about to happen, and like an apparition, an empty champagne bottle rolled right toward me, the waves of the ocean gently swaying the yacht. Luck was on my side.
With all the strength and anger inside me, I swung the bottle at his head, and the impact was enough for him to fall off me.
I beelined it for the stairs, but I knew it wasn’t the end when I caught the pure rage reflected in his eyes. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a switchblade, and I knew this time…he was going to kill me.
He lunged for me, ready to plunge the blade into my skin, but in his drunken state, he tripped on the debris from his afternoon escapades. Instead of catching me, he fell into me and dragged his knife on my hip before collapsing at my feet.
The rest was all disjointed in my memory.
I only remembered running through the dark marina, my dress ripped and blood drying on my face. His shithead security were right on my heels, shouting and jeering, their hyena laughs bouncing off the dark corners of the streets, but I didn’t look back. I ran, ran, ran as fast as I could.
Shaking, I bolted into a bar with bikers and other questionables smoking at the entrance, but I didn’t care—anywhere was safer than outside.
And it was in that dive bar that I received help and understanding. The bartender was a tall woman, tattooed and pierced, and she only had to glance my way to know what had happened. No understanding or empathy from my father, but from a woman who looked like she killed people with her chokehold.
She brought me into the back office and sat me down on a chair, the silence between us punctuated by guitar riffs coming from the bar. Trembling all over, I sat in a state of stupor, unable to form a coherent sentence, just repeating the same words over and over.
I wasn’t going to stay. I wasn’t going to stay. I wasn’t going to stay.
So gently, she wiped my nose, staining her own T-shirt with my blood. She didn't push for information. She nodded, listened, and made a phone call, but I couldn’t understand what she was doing. Couldn’t understand who she was. Where I was.
An ambulance arrived soon after, and right before helping me inside, she shoved a large black T-shirt into my hands to make sure I didn’t go home in a ripped dress.
But the bigger heartbreak came after—when I relayed all the details to my father and instead of believing me and accepting the truth, he argued it to himself anyway he could. I didn't want to show him the long stitched up wound. I didn't want to hear that it was my fault again.
Getting away to Miami for the weekend took careful planning and covert operations with my two best friends.
I wanted to have fun for the first time in a long time.
I wanted to be a young woman and not a victim.
Not broken. Despite what happened, I had to prove to myself that I could enjoy myself.
So I lied to my father and told him I was travelling to Miami for a few meetings.
Work was the only acceptable reason to go anywhere.
But as I danced with a smile on my face, it was again a man who shoved me into a dark hallway. It was again a man who zip tied my hands, my writhing not even a competition for his strength.
And it was men's games that placed me in these circumstances.
So forgive us all, women, Alex, for not trusting men.