What came across like an eternity while every punch pierced my soul and my physical self. Initially, I felt the depth of each punch, then I would detach my mind from my body and felt no more. Husband #1 beat me up and down my back, smashing the back of my head with his fists.
He eventually ceased and headed back to his dart room where one of his freeload drug addict buddies had been during this. Never, not once did anyone try to intervene.
I laid on my stomach, curled up in a fetal position while crying hysterically for at least a half-hour waiting for the pain to subside. When I tried to get up I couldn’t. The pain shot happily through my ribs when I took normal breaths. I endured a few more minutes as I was lying on the living room floor mustering up the mental capability to just get up and lay on the couch and to withstand the inevitable pain this would take to do this. I never reckoned to go to the hospital although I probably should have. I could barely breathe my left side area hurt so much when I did. So I monitored my breathing to short, shallow and slow; in and out. Looking back on the three days I barely could move from that couch I possibly had a cracked rib. Not once did Husband #1 ask me if I was ok. He ignored me as if I was invisible.