Hello. My name is Wendy and I was a victim of domestic violence.
If I said where our marriage went wrong, I wouldn’t know where to begin. The cheating, the lying, the arguing, the black and blue bruises that stained my face regularly. All I knew was that I had enough. It was sometime in the morning, but I can’t remember the exact minute and hour. The abusive bastard had just finished beating me to the floor, grabbed his keys, and drove to work in his navy blue blazer like nothing happened.
Every single time in the past, I would pick myself up, clean myself off, and carry on with my day. I would refuse to leave the house if the bruises were particularly bad. But this day would be different.
I stood and every fiber of my being ached and groaned in response. My head exploded in pain from the aftermath. I felt like a rag doll that had been tossed and beaten by a child. The world tilted slowly on its side.
I grabbed hold of the coffee table to steady myself. No. I wouldn’t fall again.
I limped through the house and into our newborn son’s bedroom, where he rested peacefully in his crib. I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Oblivious to the events that had just taken place, his face was a mask of tranquility and innocence. I knew then what had to be done.
I stormed through the house and collected any boxes I could find. I shoved my belongings within them, except for the photos of my husband; I took those and slammed them on the floor. Even after I packed everything I owned, I still wasn’t satisfied. I remembered there were more boxes in the attic, so I went to collect those.
With a smirk, I stuffed his things into those boxes. He was so materialistic, so I knew how to hurt him. His expensive colognes, his autographed baseball bats, his leather dress shoes, his stupid Louis Vuitton wallet. I took them all. But I wasn’t satisfied.
I took the plates and glasses from the cabinets. I took the sofa cushions and put them in the car. One by one, I took the newly filled boxes and packed them into the car as well. The job took me well into the afternoon, the sun burning brightly in the sky. I dressed my son and buckled him into his carseat. I went back inside the house with my hands on my hips and surveyed the area. The house was naked except for a few chairs and tables, the sofa, and the 50″ HD plasma tv in the living room.
He had bought that tv just a week before and spent countless hours eating in front of it like a filthy swine. I pried the wedding ring from my left hand and slammed it on the coffee table next to the remote. I was about to leave when an idea presented itself and I laughed.
I picked up the remote and threw it with all my strength right through the tv. I salivated at the wonderful sound of shattered glass raining to the floor.
I grabbed my keys and drove off with my son. I didn’t leave a note. Oh, how I would have loved to see the look on his face when he returned home and realized…
But where would I go? I had no idea. Any place was better when your house was no longer a home.
-Daevone Molyneux, 2014