The Cycle
You are standing over her body. There is a waft of smoke coming out the end of the pistol that you’re holding. You should probably lower the gun, but your arms feel frozen in front of you, just as your fingers feel frozen around the handle. It takes you a moment to realize what you’ve done. The weight of the, now, warm metal sends a chill down your spine, because you already know that no one is going to believe you when you say, “I had to kill her.”
…
It is five years earlier, and your cheeks are burning from the places where she’s slapped you. Her saliva hits your face, and you almost swear you can hear it sizzle against your flesh. It’s not your own rage that’s stained your face red, but a combination of her fury and your own humiliation. And before you can even ask her, “Why?!” her fists are connecting with other parts of your body. You slump to the floor, curling into a tight ball, and trying to protect yourself. Every time this happens, and it happens more and more often these days, you can hear your father’s drunken voice in the back of your head, calling you a pussy! Asking you why you’d let a woman treat you this way.
…
It is two years earlier, and she’s screaming at you. You’re such a worthless piece of shit! Her language, her hostility, doesn’t shock you anymore. All you can do is cover your ears and hope that she gets tired of verbally assaulting you. That’s when she throws a punch that catches you square in the face. Your eyes tear up and you swear you can almost see stars. This is the first time that she’s ever hit you.
…
You are six years old. Your father is a sinister shadow cast on the front porch. You are afraid that he’s going to come back in to finish the argument, but instead he slips out the front door, into the night. Your mother is a puddle of sobs on the kitchen floor. There’s blood staining her face. Her eyes are puffy and swollen; it’s a mixture of the violent crying and the freshly developing bruises. You sit down next to her, reaching out your small hand, wishing you could have protected her. This is the moment that you blame yourself for her pain.
This is the instant that you decide you will stop the cycle of violence that had been a family tradition for as long as anyone in your family could remember. You swear to yourself that you will never hit a woman. In fact, you pledge that you will never even raise your voice…
And you have no idea that, in a horribly ironic turn of events, you will grow up to acutely perpetuate the cycle… by marrying a woman who will treat you in the same way that you are terrified of inflicting on someone else. By not asking for help… for suffering in silence, the way your mother did.
But the worst part is that even if you had asked for help, most people probably would have shrugged their shoulders or perhaps even mocked you.
Because even forty years from now, people will have a hard time grasping the concept:
Domestic violence isn’t a women’s issue. It’s a human one.
What I've Learned From Fiction - Disappearing Edition
I debated whether or not to post this one, due to the subject matter, but figured what the hell, it’s already in a best-selling novel.
Here’s how simple it may be to make oneself disappear. This passage is verbatim from the book “Every Dead Thing” by John Connolly:
“Obtain a new birth certificate, maybe from a death index or by using someone else’s birth name and DOB, and age the cert by carrying it around in your shoe for a week. Apply for a library card and, from that, obtain a voter’s registration card. Head for the nearest DMV clerk, flash the birth certificate and the VRC, and you now have a driver’s license. It’s a domino effect, each step based on the validity of the documents obtained in the preceding step.”
If, in the near future, any of you appear to have fallen off the face of the Earth, I’ll know how it happened :)
What I've Learned From Fiction (Pt 3)
- Robie had walked right into that one. He never should have offered anything other than what was in his official report. - David Baldacci (fm “The Hit”)
- Hands with guns were what killed, while eyes were just points of deception; it was a lesson learned too late for the fool who stopped looking at the fingers. - David Baldacci (fm “The Hit”)
- Reel looked different. Not totally, just subtly. But that was good enough. Most people were terrible observers. And even those good at observing were not very adept at it. Reel had done just enough to beat the odds that someone would spot her. Not too much. Not too little. Just enough. - David Baldacci (fm “The Hit”)
- He moved stealthily toward the cabin, knelt, and fired at the door and the porch floor. - David Baldacci (fm “The Hit”)
- At the far side of the station, its bumper hanging out just far enough that he could see it, was a black Range Rover. - David Baldacci (fm “The Hit”)
- It was burned into law enforcement folks to ID themselves when possibly confronted by fellow lawmen. Creds came out and people started screaming who they were with. The last thing a cop wanted was to get shot by another cop. Or shoot another cop. - David Baldacci (fm “The Hit”)
- Destroyed knees were so painful that even the toughest men could only lie there and sob like babies. - David Baldacci (fm “The Hit”)
- He put his earbuds in and set his smarrtphone on the table but did not turn on any music. He sipped his beer and eavesdropped on their conversation, all the while swaying his head as he pretended to listen to a tune. - David Baldacci (fm “The Hit”)
- He moved to the door very slowly. The floors were wooden and old, and such floors creaked. He didn’t take actual steps. He slid his feet along the floor to minimize the noise. - David Baldacci (fm “The Hit”)
- Other than North Korea and Iran, Syria was arguably the most difficult country in the world to escape from for a westerner. … The only positive element was that Syria’s borders were not secure. They were flimsy and ever-changing. - David Baldacci (fm “The Hit”)
