October 17th, 2008

As I watched the minutes of my work day count down my anxiety began to rise like mercury on a record breaking summer day. 3:15 finally arrives and I wish my students a safe and happy weekend. I do my best to muster up an authentic smile as I head them off to the door not wanting any of them to see me break down. I shut my classroom door and wander back to my desk letting my body take over for my mind is spent. I slump into my chair and take a deep breath trying to gather the courage I must have to make it through this weekend.

Today is the day! I am breaking out of my prison and reclaiming my life. He left early this morning to go hunting and if everything goes as planned he will be gone until late Sunday afternoon. That should give me plenty of time to get my things out of the house. My house, my first house with my name and my name only on the mortgage...but it doesn't matter now. I don't care who's name declares ownership of the structure for it is no home. I hate this house and everything it stands for.

The blood red curtains in the dinning room that match the color of the opposing living room wall make me shudder. I've come to despise that color in any form. It reminds me of anger and pain. I can too vividly recall the day my kitten was snatched up off the couch by his head and hurled against the wall with such force the echo of his little body hitting that horrendous red wall with a dull thud play over and over in my ears.

I hate how cold it always is in here. Despite the number on the thermostat I am constantly shivering, covered in a layer or two of the warmest clothing I can find, and cocooned in as many blankets as possible. There is a chill in the air of this house that resembles an arctic breeze. People say that hell is an inferno but my hell is this icebox of a house. The stinging icy fingers that seem to sneak through my attempt at warmth and wrap around my throat are those of the control and abuse that generate in his heart.

I hate everything about this house from the way it looks like a quaint little cottage on the outside only to hide the evils that go on inside to the smell of him that lingers in each room. The odor of a coward masked by the overpowering stench of a tyrant. I wish I could push a button and have all the memories erased, wiped clean like you would a computer. I would endure almost any amount of physical pain at this point to wipe my memory clean. Nothing hurts worse than letting my mind go to that place. The place where all the words were said and accusations made. The place where I cowered in a corner and flinched with any quick movement towards me. The place where I let someone treat me so terribly that I tried to end it not by standing up for myself but instead by giving up on life all together.

I've had all that I can take though. Nothing in this house, except my life, is worth fighting for. My parents Tahoe is backed up to the front door so that I have less distance to cover to get things into it. Boxes are thrown in hurried disarray throughout my house. I've decided to go room by room taking only the necessities. I will be moving back home with my parents so the kitchen appliances and cookware will not be needed. The washing machine and dryer are too big to move by myself so I will just cut my losses with those as well as the furniture. The couches are his but the bed, the one I've had and loved since high school, will stay here. I can not fathom laying my head down on that filthy surface once more. The memories of him and the torture I have endured for the past sixteen months are so deeply rooted in that bed that I am willing to just abandon it like a piece of trash without hesitation though for so long prior to this it provided me with such comfort.

For the past three months I have been systematically removing things from the house so that when the day finally came I would have less to pack. I started with my summer clothes as the season wound down defending the move by saying that I needed to make room in my closet for my cold weather wardrobe. Following the clothes were items of value to me that I knew he would destroy for the simple pleasure of causing me pain if given a glimpse of opportunity to do so. The first thing being rescued from my prison and returned home to my parents was my childhood teddy bear. The bear that had accompanied me through two major surgeries, had been forgotten in California and turned around for on the way back to Idaho, the bear that had caught my tears and comforted my broken heart on so many occasions. To the world my bear was a torn up rag but to me it was the world. A part of my world that caused me some sort of happiness which meant he would destroy it without hesitation. Other salvaged items included my high school year books, special homemade gifts from my parents, and even my cat who I had used the excuse of getting neutered and needing to heal to move him to my parents so he no longer had to endure the dictator's abuse.

When I began the process that night it seemed as though there was not much left to pack. For a house full of things it was quite honestly, in all regards that matter, a house full of nothing. There was no love in the house, no good memories, nothing worth sentimental value that we shared. There were his things, my things, and the things we had acquired together that I wanted nothing to do with. Despite my hypothesis of how quick I thought the escape would go after three full loads back to my parents house I wondered if this process was ever going to end. I prayed with each box shoved into the vehicle that he would not come home. My breath stopped each time I heard a truck turn down our streets. And, on more than one occasion throughout the move when a set of headlights would seem to linger on the house for just a moment too long my heart would all but stop as I quickly planned escape routes in my head. I was not sure when he would return for he had told me Sunday but with him nothing was ever set in stone. He could convince himself, by the time he reached the mountains, that I was going to cheat, race home, and tear into the house in a self induced rage. He had done this before only to find that I was in bed, asleep, and alone. I was not sure when he would be returning but I was certain about one thing...if he caught me in the middle of this move I would not live to make it home.

Home....my parents home...the one place I would be safe...the one place I should have never ran from...