As I look in the mirror, I don't understand what I see. The girl looking back at me is somehow looking down at her feet. She's embarrassed and ashamed to even look me in the eye. Her eyes clearly depict horror and sadness. Her skin is discoloured. Black and purple most prominent. There aren't many places where her real skin tone shows through. There's blood and hair. To look at her frightens me. It hurts to raise my eyes to her face. To meet her gaze and look her square in the eye. Not just hurt from the heart that bleeds more than her body, but from the physical pain I feel all around my scalp where he ripped me up off the floor by my hair and threw me around the house again and again. Into doors and walls. Reefing me up just so he could knock me down again.
I know there should be tears. I should be crying, sobbing. I'm not. Not one single tear wells into my bloodshot eyes. I am sad, hurt, confused. I grab my pen and my notebook. I start to scrawl some thoughts onto paper. I describe how sorry I am. How I wish is hadn't have caused his so much pain. Not once mentioning my own pain or heartache. For it is a dull ache in comparison to what he has gone through. What I put him through.
- adapted from personal diary.
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