Chapter 5
Chapter five
Same Bull
A few hours later, I moan, rubbing the back of my neck. I'm in so much pain that I don't even know how I'm going to be able to drive home. I had all my clients back-to-back, but thankfully I'm now out of session for the day and can focus on administrative work.
Because I spaced out my clients, I was able to complete all their log notes in between sessions, so now all I have to do is check for referrals and my work email.
Opening my laptop, I blow out a tense breath.
I’d be absolutely lying to myself if I said I didn’t think about Dr. Richardson’s reply. If he even replied, that is.
I pull up my work email first, and there it is, in irritating black-and-white with enough healthy dose of holier-than-thou energy and professionalism to make my teeth grind.
Ms. Johnson,
In our communications, it would be preferable for you to address me as Dr. Richardson.
I am available on Friday between the hours of 6p and 7p.
I will go over your notes. No need to bring the DSM-V.
In case you weren't aware, I helped to add to the new edition, so maybe I can teach you a few things instead of you always trying to school me in this insufferably professional way of yours.
As for the incredibly thoughtful, and lovely threat to go to the board, well, that’s your prerogative. Isn’t it?
I'll see you in court.
Warmest Regards,
'DOCTOR' Alexander Richardson, MD.
I feel my face heat up immediately. I didn’t take out the “un” like I’d thought…
"Oooohh, this freaking man!" I blurt out loudly.
Bending over my laptop, I roll my eyes and reply simply, stating that I'd be there Friday at six sharp.
Mr. Richardson is how I greet him, nothing more, nothing less, because he needs to be knocked down a peg or two.
I sign my name, no titles, regards, warm or otherwise, included.
Even though, yeah...it's unprofessional…
I do it anyway, feeling absolutely no shame.
I'm too tired and hurt to care about being embarrassed or politically correct.
I pop an extra strength Tylenol, wincing against the throbbing pain in my body.
I shut down the office and head home for the day to fix dinner: a simple chicken salad.
I spend time calling Chris and Jerome on the way home on a group call and verify that when the time comes that they’d be able to help move my things.
I consider myself so grateful that I had the sense to not combine finances with Brandon, as it would have made this sticky situation worse.
Back at home, I breathe a sigh of relief at Brandon’s absence.
Thanking God that I may not be beaten or degraded tonight, I make dinner quickly because I'm starving.
A half-hour later, I'm finally done, and I sit at the glass dining room table with a whimper, feeling my back smart.
Thinking about taking a long warm bath when I'm done, I eat my salad.
Bumpy must like it because I crave it so much.
I'm lost in my head, wondering when Bumpy is going to decide to give me an actual bump, when the front door opens, and Brandon saunters in drunk. I put my fork down, appetite gone.
Oh no. Wiping my mouth, I stand up and take my half-eaten plate to the sink. Feeling his eyes on me, my skin prickles with trepidation and discontent.
"Hey," he says in an aloof tone.
Glancing over, I ignore Brandon's greeting, knowing that he probably won't remember this interaction at all considering how drunk he currently looks. Flicking my eyes down his disheveled state, I note his blonde hair is mused, and his shirt is buttoned up haphazardly.
I tighten my lips. He's probably cheating, which is why he thinks I am. It's projection at its finest and an old-as-time textbook abuser trait.
My efforts to ignore him are in vain. Brandon comes up behind me, smelling godawful, and presses his lips to the back of my hair. "Hey, baby," he murmurs into my ear, softening his voice.
Not able to help myself, I recoil, wrinkling my nose at the stench of body odor and alcohol rolling off him in waves.
My nose twitches, forcing me to pause in the action of rinsing my hands, smelling something different on him this time.
The alcohol is almost enough to mask it, but not quite. I turn off the faucet.
Was he with another woman?
I sting with betrayal, even though I was so sure at this point that he couldn't have done anything else to hurt me. But I'm done with him. Tightening my lips, I turn to dry my hands on a hand towel, keeping quiet and trying to ignore him hovering.
Out of my periphery, I see him look at me with a sad looking expression on his face, but nothing in me is able to meet his eye.
“I’m sorry, Sarah Beara. I won’t hit you anymore! Can you just love me, please?” he says, leaning into me. His arm bands around my shoulders, snagging my hair and making my eyes water anew with the small prick of pain that is just a mere layer on top of the other hurts.
I grit my teeth and maneuver myself from under his arm, turning and walking to the living room.
Sitting on the sofa, I reach over for the remote on the table. “There’s chicken salad for you if you want some,” I say in a light tone.
It isn't until I'm mindlessly flipping through the various apps on the television for something to watch that I realize I'm hesitating to pick a show based off what he might think about it. My heart beat ramps up, stealing my breath and making my chest tight.
If I choose a dating show, would he call me a whore and ask if that’s what I wanted? A bunch of men's attention?
If I watch a weight loss show, would he call me disgusting and fat again?
If I choose a competitive singing show, he’d find a way to bring up my singing at the lounge, as that’s what made him beat me so brutally the night before.
I frown, finding a problem with every show I click past. My heart races even faster, and to my horror I feel something like hate bloom in my chest as I realize I'm beginning to truly resent him for making me feel this way.
It's a freaking TV show, not a monumental decision to be made.
I shake my head, lamenting at the four years just down the drain, wasted. My twenties.
My precious youth.
He moves closer, and I turn my head slightly, feeling my face heat as he strolls lazily to me. His footsteps sound out unevenly as he stumbles slightly, under the influence.
“There’s chicken salad if you want some!
” Brandon mocks back at me in a baby voice.
“You already cook like those fat southern women," he says in his normal tone, getting an ugly expression on his face. "I guess that’s what’s coming next, huh? You’re gunna let yourself get fat?
” He bends down to put his face inches away from mine, cocking his head to the side in a blatant challenge.
Recoiling my head, I eye him, staying silent. No woman should ever be made to feel challenged by a man.
He doesn't relent. I turn my face away to hide as my eyes well up with sadness, this time at his childish, uncalled for behavior. Silently I will him to back off.
“Bitch,” he spit out roughly, turning and tripping over his feet as he walks back into the kitchen.
At least he's not hitting me.
I can deal with degradation; I just don't want to be hit.
Not knowing where to put my gaze, I just sit here quietly and stare off towards the wall, trembling and upset, wishing I could call my dad. Craving softness from him. To know that he'd want to protect me and tell me I'm going to be okay.
I flinch when Brandon pulls a cabinet drawer out so aggressively that it comes off its hinges and clatters noisily to the floor. But I continue to stay quiet as he curses about how stupid I am, and how promiscuous I am for performing at the lounge two nights a week like a whore.
My gaze falls to my lap where my fingers fidget. I didn't even need to click on any show, honestly. He's giving me a spectacle to watch, a live experience in degradation. My lips quiver as the image of my fingers distort.
What did I ever do to you to make you treat me this way? I thought you loved me. You told me that we’re in this life together…
My heart tugs as I continue to sit quietly.
A tear falls down my cheek as I clench my hands, imagining I'm holding the hand of someone who cares about me.
Someone who will hold their hand out for me to take and pull me into them, wrapping me in their arms and assuring me that I'll come out of this thing in one piece.
I imagine the hand gripping mine is someone who wants to comfort me. Wants me.
Why does no one want me?
Even my own dad doesn't like me.
The realization makes my heart skip a beat, because it hits me that I truly have daddy issues, and this is why I was so blind to Brandon's antics.
I contemplate how he'd never betrayed any negative feelings to me before the pregnancy about my side gig.
His hot and cold behavior leaves me reeling and confused.
Because Brandon used to love my singing and the fact that I was talented.
He would sit in the front row and clap with the others in the audience, smiling brightly as I performed. I guess it turns out it was all a facade. All of it. Every second. And that hurts to the bone, and even deeper, if possible.
I don't know if I'll ever trust again.
Feeling like my heart is shattering to pieces, I begin to grieve the Brandon that I used to know. Mourn the man that is apparently no longer there in any fashion. I hug my arms close to myself and sniff, feeling more alone than I've ever felt before.
I wish I could go home to my parents. If that were a possibility, I'd leave tonight. Start over again.
"Stupid bitch," Brandon mutters.
There's a scuffle as he slips on a utensil he'd stepped on in the kitchen.
Tears slide unchecked down my face as I look back up and do my best to turn on a show to ignore him, keeping the volume low as I wipe gently at my cheeks with the sleeve of my cardigan, trying to not draw attention to myself.
I attempt to mentally retreat, worried that if I tried to leave right now, Brandon really would put his hands on me and put me in the hospital.
Breathing deeply, I force myself to calm down. Trying to mentally remember the guided meditation I followed this morning in the car, I place my hand on my tummy again.
Don’t worry; I’ll love you enough for the both of us, Bumpy.
I try to send all positive thoughts, not wanting the negativity to infiltrate the baby. My little bumpy. Brittany.
Just a little over a week until my first apartment tour, okay? It’s the week after next, I talk to Bumpy, trying to encourage the both of us. I can't give up on my practice, drop everything and move to my parents’. I try to have faith that it's going to be okay.
It just has to.
Refusing to let him alienate me out of the living room, I curl my legs under me and take a steadying breath.
I studiously ignore Brandon’s muttering as he sits at the table and eats the rest of the food that he'd just complained about.
He's selfish, not leaving me any for my lunch tomorrow.
I don't let the lack of consideration bother me, because what is the point?
It's not a new feeling to me, the lack of consideration; I've felt it my whole life.
Different day, same bull.