I’m going to start this week with something that I wrote a couple of years ago. It is fiction.
The circumstances centered around this piece is irrelevant and all parties involved have found a quaky sorta peace.
Also the following involves issues around violence that may be a trigger for some people. If you are in an abusive situation, seek help. I know it’s difficult but NO ONE deserves to be abused no matter the circumstances.
Also check out Helpguide.org for more information.
Also, my fellow writers, I’d like to improve my writing so any critique you can give me would be much appreciated, or if you feel up to it, could you please answer this question.
1. Are there any spots that are confusing or need to be cleaned up?
Also if you have some fiction you would like me to look at please leave a link, or shoot me an e-mail.
Now I present:
Spittle landed on my face as you screamed. Your once tender fingers wrapped around my neck. Eyes narrowed, teeth clenched, you squeezed. I did not struggle. I did deserved it. Right?
I did not come straight home. My reasons, my own, but my actions hurt you. Fears flooded your mind. You panicked and your windpipe started to close. Your gasping woke her and all she could do was watch as you writhed on the floor.
So I deserved to be punished. I allowed you to cut off my air. Even hoped you would finish the job.
It became harder to breathe but I remained defiant. Showing no emotion.
No begging or pleading, just complete acceptance for your need to punish me.
For my need to punish myself.
Soon I felt my body panic as my lungs lurched.
My acceptance crumbled, my brain started to reel, and adrenaline kicked in.
I fought back, I bit you, breaking the skin, drawing blood; causing you to let go.
The next day, as I gazed in the mirror, I felt that I deserved the purple marks, that I was applying make up to, on my neck. My disloyalty earned them. Also, you should quit whining, I didn’t bite you that hard.
For years I blamed myself for that night, for panicking you. It wasn’t until my therapist told me, many people have panic attacks but they do not choke their spouses afterwards, that I was able to accept my lack of guilt.
You still push my buttons, still prompt me to question everything I am and whether I deserve to be in certain situations. You still whine about the “bite” as I quietly cover my bruises.
But this isn’t about me, or you, or that night, before and after. This is about her. I worry that she will suffer the same fate. Only worse, for she will not understand that it was I you see when she is punished.