Chapter 1
Chapter one
Unethical
"No!"
I gasp as my head snaps violently to the side, and red-hot pain washes over my face in waves as my boyfriend's fist connects with my cheek. The sound reverberates out, echoing in the small space, and it stuns me, driving home just how desolate the situation I'm in is.
Locking eyes with him, I stumble backwards, and my fingers fly up to my face.
Discombobulated, I let out a surprised yelp and hit the floor with a sickening thud and land with a jarring jolt onto my left shoulder.
The terror deepens when he takes a threatening step forward, and my throat works as I desperately try to inhale, but I can't get much air.
My body fights against me, strangling me even as my vision suddenly goes black, and nausea tightens my throat.
Whimpering, I roll to my side and squeeze my eyes shut as I recoil in fear.
Not again.
Ignoring the deep throb in my shoulder, my feet cycle against the floor as I hurriedly attempt to position myself to face the wall next to me.
Panic floods my being as Brandon's body looms over mine, towering over where I'm huddled in the corner of our living room trying to make myself as small as possible because maybe that means he'll leave me alone.
I should know better, but I still pray anyway.
“Why do you make me fucking do this to you, you stupid disgusting bitch?” Brandon yells.
I flinch in disgust when his spit lands on my skin and hair.
Knowing replying will only make it worse, I bite back a moan and curl in on myself, intent on protecting the almost eleven-week old baby in my womb.
My arms work to cradle around the slight swell in my stomach tightly, pressing myself harder into the wall.
"Just stop, please," I cry out, fearful for Bumpy's life.
He bends down, mercilessly fisting his hand into my hair hard and yanking me around to face him as he pulls back his fist again and snaps it forward.
With a stunned cry, I crumple once more to the gleaming dark-walnut hardwood floor, huddling as close as I can against the wall and pulling my knees up to my chest.
“Brandon, no!" I sob. "The baby! You're hurting our baby!”
My body jerks, and I gag on my cries as he kicks me so hard I splay flat onto my back. His size eleven shoe bounces off my knee a second, then third time, creating fresh pain for me to deal with.
Rolling back over, I begin to pray as hard as I can that he'll cease beating me, desperate to protect my baby.
I raise trembling hands to shield my face as I curl up against the wall next to the tv stand.
A loud crash sounds out as I accidentally knock over a decorative blue mosaic vase that was my parents housewarming gift to us when we bought this home.
It's contents clatter loudly as it scatters on the floor next to my feet.
“You stupid slut. I told you not to perform that song tonight!
" he yells. I peek through my fingers, trying to see how close he is and if there's a possibility I can try to run for the door.
But to my dismay, he's too close for me to attempt it.
"If I hadn’t shown up, then what?" he snarls roughly.
"You were just going to get away with disobeying me? "
The intensity of Brandon's yelling causes his face to turn bright red.
His blonde hair is mussed, and he's currently showing a side of himself that I've so far not gleaned in our time together.
It terrifies me even further. In response, I crawl into a safe spot inside my head, dissociating from the father of my child.
My college sweetheart of four years is now an unrecognizable shell of the man he used to be.
Brandon’s face contorts in anger. The dimples in his cheeks are pronounced as he continues to scream obscenities at me, and his usually pristine hair flops limply over his face as he bends down over me while I cover my ears, shivering.
I'm too scared to fight back. Scared this might be the time he'll snap and kill me.
Oh God. Please don’t.
After a few more minutes of cursing, he finally stumbles noisily away and narrowly misses tripping over our glass living room table.
I keep quiet as he grabs his jacket and keys, slamming the door behind him loudly as he exits the three-bedroom home we’d bought just two years ago when I thought we were happy.
Before the baby.
Finally alone, I sag flat onto the floor in relief as the adrenaline fades, letting my cries ring free now that he's gone.
I lay here weeping for long minutes that all blend together in a painfully indiscernible eon of time.
My shaky fingers touch my bruised cheek, causing me to wince as a fresh bout of pain slices through my face.
In the weeks he'd started abusing me, Brandon has never outright punched me in the face.
Matter of fact, I've never been punched in the face before.
A different kind of sorrow fills my body, and I let out a hurt sound at the realization. No woman should be hit.
Moaning, I fight through the pain and sit up, looking down at my stomach.
Though I'm not even showing yet, I place a trembling hand over the place where I know my baby, affectionately named ‘Bumpy,’ rests.
The baby I plan on naming Brittany, having just decided on a name this morning.
I'm sure I'm having a girl and have been looking forward to the upcoming scan that would verify it for me.
I'm so close that I can taste it.
Pulling to my knees, I pause as the room suddenly spins, forcing me to breathe through the nausea before crawling forward.
"Ow. Ow, ow, ow," I complain, shakily pulling myself up by the brand-new sofa I'd just bought a few weeks ago.
My fingers go to my face again, thinking my skin is wet, but when I pull my hand back, there's no blood. I stare for a second while I get my bearings, before I attempt to walk on my hurt knee. My eyes flick to the television which still has the video stream of the classical station I’d put on to relax.
Before Brandon walked in, flipping my world upside down yet again.
Straightening my spine, I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and watch the man on the screen play his instrument.
In this harrowing moment, it feels like the instrument is calling out to me.
It affects me so badly that fresh tears slide down my face as I stare straight ahead miserably, feeling my heart crying out just like the lovely instrument.
Wondering once again what I ever did that warranted Brandon to begin treating me this way.
Dejected, I turn away from the screen dismissively, limping gingerly into the primary bathroom to inspect the damage to my body and my new hell. Closing the door behind me, I lock it before meeting my eyes in the reflection warily. They're swollen, red, and tear-stained.
What's completely heartbreaking is that I'm unrecognizable in my sadness.
I don't know this woman staring back at me.
She's not me.
My long, dark-brown hair that I'm so proud of is in disarray, and my skin is washed-out.
Lowering my gaze, I lament at the sight of my brand new red dress that's now torn at the strap and hanging off my shoulder.
Ruined. Inspecting my face closer, I notice that my medium-tan skin is turning a shade darker at my jaw.
Raising my gaze once more to my eyes again hopefully, I grimace as I observe that my spark is indeed gone.
My stomach knots, and my fingers white-knuckle the sink as I search even harder, seeing nothing.
Desperate, I lean forward even closer as if that'll help and search again. My lips twist, and my face contorts at the realization that he's beat it out of me. I can't find it because it's not there.
It's gone.
Standing there, being overwhelmed by fresh feelings of inadequacy and confusion, I let go of the sink and wrap my arms around myself in a soothing motion, wondering how on earth I found myself in this situation.
Because this is recent...Brandon didn’t start physically abusing me until after he’d found out I was pregnant.
Once he’d received the news of my pregnancy, he'd started anxiously binge drinking. Shortly after that, he started hitting me, and it's becoming progressively worse as the weeks tick by. Now the hits come accompanied by nasty words fueled by hate. Words I’d never thought I’d ever hear come from him, now come as easily as if he was ordering his favorite Starbucks drink.
Except it's unfortunately at my expense. Not his.
Knowing that I can't afford to abandon my nightly routine, I take a deep breath and sigh.
Picking up a rolled face towel off the stack nearby, I turn the faucet on and wet it with cold water.
Moving slow, I sniff, trying to stem tears that won't stop.
My fingers are shaky as I open the mirror and grab my face wash, and I try to calm myself as I squirt some onto the white terrycloth.
Going through the motions, I wipe my face, all the while careful to avoid my gaze in the mirror, taking pains to not press too hard into my jaw where a deep throbbing is ensuing.
I'm probably not going to get any sleep tonight.
When I'm done, I grab my red hairbrush, pull my hip-length hair to either side of my front, and begin to detangle my hair in short strokes.
Ignoring the slight pain of the bristles snagging the knots, I carry on with my nightly duties with a sort of dissociative stoicism I teach my clients not to have. Feeling like a hypocrite, I blink through the hot sting of tears that won't subside for anything.