Everyone she talked to that day said the same thing – “There is no excuse. You are not to blame. He is the monster, not you.”
It had turned into a comforting litany, and she repeated it to herself with every tear that rolled out. It was like a funeral with one person playing the body and the mourner.
I fear I’m making it too dramatic. But the problem is that there is no way to make black and blue patches of skin less dramatic. They are coloured that way already.
There are so many clichés tumbling around. “He is from a good family, they don’t behave like that.” “I’m a smart, educated woman. This happens to other people.” “We are in love. We’ll talk about our differences.”
All well and good, until he decides to take off that mask.
The only thing that hurts in the end (no, it’s not the slaps or the punches or the kicks or the choking), is the sheer unreasonableness of it.
Why did this happen to me?
What did I do?