Escaping Parker - F.T. Zele Page 0,5

and I quickly clean up so I can just go to bed.

I tiptoe down the hall, knowing to him I can’t even walk right at this point. I slip into my room and change my clothes fast, before he comes out, and make my way to the bathroom to get ready for bed. I slam into him on my way out.

“Sorry,” I say meekly, as I try to walk around him. When I step to one side he cuts me off.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“To bed, I’m tired.”

“Oh no you aren’t. You aren’t going to bed until you have done your wifely duties. Do you think you can do that right?”

“I . . .”

He slams me against the counter, hitting my spine on the cold tile. Pain shoots down my back, and I whimper.

“Don’t act like that hurt you.” He closes the distance, his breath reeking of liquor. “You used to like it rough, remember that? When you used to make me happy?”

Fear courses through my veins, my breathing strained as my walls start closing in. He stares me in my eyes, but I keep them emotionless, not showing him any sign I’m frightened. That will just make it worse. I stay silent.

“Answer me!” he shouts.

I jump. “I used to, yes.”

“Well, why don’t we get you reacquainted with how you used to be. Now strip.” He isn’t asking, he’s telling me what I have to do. I take too long complying, and he yells, “Now!”

The first tear falls as I step back and pull down my sweatpants. Humiliated and ashamed, I continue doing what I’m told, not wanting to get knocked around physically, because I don’t know if he will be able to stop.

It has been years since I have had sex with this man willingly. Most people don’t understand what it feels like having to choose between staying alive to fight another day, or defying him, hoping his threats are empty.

I’m dead inside, but I choose to remain an optimist. Refusing to give up so easily, it’s a daily fight to keep my head above water. Defeat isn’t something I plan on giving in to. I tread carefully to keep my life, knowing if I just keep going, I will be free one day.

Being forced to commit such a personal act unwillingly violates every part of my soul. I’ve said no, stop, so many times, it just falls on deaf ears. He takes what he wants. I often wonder if being in jail is better than this, knowing there I will also be under the control of another, but will it be as bad? I have vivid dreams about ending his life; I have weighed out the pros and cons. Would a jury sympathize with me, would the amount of evidence be enough to liberate me? Or would I just become another woman, let down by the system? I have nobody on my side since I haven’t ever spoken a word to anybody.

No one option seems better than the other, so I die inside a little more while he forces himself on me.

I’ve been broken and cut down the whole weekend. Steven was in and out of the house, which left me a lot of time alone, thinking, feeling dirty inside, which hurts me to the core.

So having to get ready is a challenge this morning, scrambling around, feeling like I’m missing something. I’ve double checked everything multiple times, but everything is here.

I’m running late to my meeting with this new client, Andrew, which makes me feel unprofessional. I know I’m going to be apologizing a million times. As I pull into the empty parking lot, I wonder if I’ve confused the dates. There aren’t any other cars here. I brush it off, knowing lots of people take public transportation in the city to avoid the gridlock of lovely Southern California. After parking, I gather my briefcase and computer out of the back of my car, and make my way to the front of the building.

Being in the city, I would expect to be walking into a large building with an elevator. To my surprise, it’s not. I check the address on my phone again, making sure I’m at the right place. I am. I walk in to a mostly unfurnished lobby. A small older woman with peppered hair sits at a mahogany desk. She looks a little tired, but brightens up once she sees me.

“Hi. My name is Clarissa. I’m here to see Andrew . . .