Blogpost by domestic violence victim. Do have a read.
I sit in the same room.
I look around and I see the images in my head.
Actually, I don’t.
I don’t see images. I recognize the blows.
I see the mirror across the room, and how he pinned me against the wall next to it, and how I hit him with a baby powder bottle, because that was all that was close.
I sit on the bed and I remember the kicks to my belly and my back. The ones that left livid red marks, which have just started fading away. I remember him watching me curl up and cry because his shoes has hit a rib, and I could not get up.
I remember him on top on me, choking me, and me ripping off his shirt, his chain, anything, just to breathe again.
How did it start?
Because I refused to leave the room. I refused to…
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