Wounded existence

What came across like an eternity while every punch pierced my soul. He was raping my existence. Initially, I felt the depth of each punch; then, I would separate my mind from my body and feel no more. Husband #1 beat me up and down my back, smashing the back of my head with his fists.

He finally ceased and went back to his dart room where one of his mooching 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. I’d become used to the fetal position following a beating. It enabled me to think I was invisible for a moment. I cried 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 snappily when I took regular breaths. I lingered a few more minutes as I was lying on the living room floor, mustering up the mental capacity to get up and lay on the couch and endure the inevitable suffering this would take to do this. I never thought to go to the hospital, although I probably should have. I could hardly breathe. My left side area hurt so vastly 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 conceivably had a cracked rib. Not once did Husband #1 ask me if I was ok. He ignored me as if I was invisible.

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