“And apparently, your mouth is fucking useless…” His tone is more threatening. ”I guess it’s finally time to give this a ride,” he says, returning to his sickeningly sweet voice while his finger travels to my butt.
My gut clenches, and my breathing stops when I realize his intent. I can’t do that. If his usual area of entry burns while he gets his release, then this will tear me apart.
“No, Todd, please. Please, please don’t. I can’t,” I stammer desperately as my body starts shifting. My brain and body want to fight with everything I have, but the logical piece of me knows that fighting will only make him madder.
“Mmm, I love the struggle. Keep doing it. It only makes it better.”
He spits, and I feel it hit me, and even though I know it’s a mistake, my body takes over. I move to drop my knees, but he grasps my hips tightly with one hand, and he uses his forearm on my spine to hold me in place.
“Please,” I choke on the word, knowing it won’t make a difference.
I’m shaking, but he says nothing. He puts his knees on my calves, his weight making them ache. Removing a hand from my hip, he spreads the spit along my butt. I tremble fiercely as tears slip down my face. Shame floods through me, and my heart sags in my chest.
You fucking deserve this.
He’s still silent as he positions himself, and I do my best to prepare my mind and body for what is about to happen.
Nothing can prepare me.
A blood-curdling scream erupts from my lips when he slams into me. Buried inside me, he repeatedly hits my back with his fist.
Oh fucking God, it hurts so bad!
“You stupid fucking bitch, shut the fuck up.”
I thought I knew pain. But I didn’t. Emotionally, I’ve been through a lot. I lost hope when my chance to reconnect with Rick was gone. I lost my mother to depression. I have been on a roller coaster with Todd with our ups and downs. Physically, I had broken bones. I’ve been slapped and punched and kicked. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared me for the agonizing torture of having my body viciously torn apart from behind.
He finally relents from his beating, but then he begins another form of torment when he starts to move inside me. “Oh fuck, Savannah. Your ass is so fucking tight. At least you’re good for something,” he grunts as he pumps again and again and again.
I can’t do anything. I’m pinned, conflicted, and broken. He’s never done anything this drastic, but I’ve never made him this angry. My body is throbbing so much that my mind is scrambling to find a way out. I try to focus on the times when I’m good, when I make him happy, when he tells me I’m beautiful, that he loves me, that I’m special. I try to focus on his kisses when they’re passionate and when he tells me I’m his forever. Those moments mean everything to me. Nothing helps as he continues his pounding and thrusting and grunting.
God, I hope I never make him this mad again.
It feels like hours, days, years before he finally finds his release and collapses on top of me. His breathing is hard for a few minutes. My brain is so scrambled that I simply lie still, making laborious breathy noises. After a moment of relief from his pounding, he pulls out of me, and I wince, but I knowingly keep my mouth shut.
My body dissolves into him when he kisses the top of my head and wraps his arms around me while we lie on the floor. Even though my body is raw, his arms have become my sanctuary, my haven. This moment, this feeling of being loved, is what I thrive on, what I live for, and only he can give it to me.
Thank God he forgave me!
“I’m sorry I hit you so hard, Savannah. I just got so angry when you screamed. You know you can’t do that,” he murmurs tenderly against my hair. He places another soft kiss where his words just graced me. “You know I love you, baby, right?”
“I know you do. I love you, too, and it’s okay, I understand. I shouldn’t have screamed like that. I’m sorry I made you so mad,” I whisper, the sincere regret obvious in my tone.
“I forgive you.”
His arms tighten around me, and just like always, his actions, his forgiveness soothe me, and I sigh. I know I’m going to have to tell one whopper of a story to explain the marks he no doubt left behind by his beating. I’m in pain, but his love is a salve to my ravaged life. I need him. I need his kisses, his kind words, and his love. I crave them.
I crave him like the drug addict I’ve become.
He’s gone.
For three straight days after school, I’ve called his house and stopped by the convenience store where he works. He hasn’t called, and I couldn’t find him anywhere. Three days have gone by where I’ve wondered what I did wrong.
With a foggy mind, I click the End button on the phone.
He’s gone, Anna. I’m sorry. He moved out, his aunt’s voice echoes in my head.
He’s gone. He just left. I wasn’t even worthy of a good-bye.
What the fuck did I do?
Sitting on the couch with my head in my hands, I think back on every single moment I can recall, trying to figure out where I went wrong. My cheekbone still sports the fading bruise that I got when I tripped—or so I’ve told everyone. I can’t let anyone know what actually happened.
What the fuck do I do?
My solace has left. My distraction from reality is gone. My drug supply is used up.
I’m more lost than I’ve ever been, and tears prick my eyes when I realize I’m alone again. Only this time, I don’t have the guy who means everything to me. My breathing starts to come in quick pants, and my palms start sweating. I have nothing, no one to ease the pain of worthlessness. I’ve been discarded again.
You have friends, a frantic voice whispers in my head.
Yes, I have them. They have helped with distractions while at school and on the occasions when Todd would let me hang out with them, but on some level, I’ve kept them at arm’s length. While friendship is wonderful, it cannot ease the searing, debilitating mourning and anxiety seeping through my veins. I thought I had finally found someone who loved me, and I did everything I could to keep him. I needed him, and I tried so hard to make him happy so that he would love me forever.
I failed again.
My chest heaves rapidly as I struggle to breathe.
Oh fuck, what am I going to do?
A knock at the door startles me, so I rise from the couch and creep toward the door.
Is it him? Is he here? My heart pounds hard in my chest, and tears of hope sting my eyes.
When I reach the door and pull it open, my heart drops, and I burst into tears. The only thing that keeps me standing is a small sliver of faith that the box sitting in front of my door is from him. Reaching down to pick it up, I see immediately that it’s from my grandmother, and I dimly register that it’s likely my birthday present. My legs give way, and I slide to the floor. I clutch the box to have something to hold on to while I crumble. I can’t hold it anymore, and my body convulses as I sob.
He’s never coming back.
I gave him everything, absolutely everything, every single broken piece of me, and he tossed them into the sewer like a piece of shit—like I’m a piece of shit.
What the fuck is so wrong with me that I can be tossed away so carelessly? He just left, vanished.
I sob harder and harder with the feeling of worthlessness. I have nothing, and no one loves me. I’m falling deeper and deeper into a hole of blackness, and I hate it. Throwing my head back, I scream. I’m crying out for someone to save me from my drowning, but no one’s here. The empty house matches my soul. My frustrated, broken heart wants relief. It wants something to take away this horrible ache in my heart.
When I look down at the package and see Savannah Matuszak, I lose it because only Todd calls me that. To everyone else, I’ve always been Anna. I loved it when he called me his Savannah, but now, I hate that name, and I never want to hear it again. I can’t stand to look at the reminder of my worthlessness, so with another screech, I toss the box across the room, and it hits
the bookshelf. One of the many box cutters my dad brings home from work tumbles from the shelf, and it skitters across the floor until it lands a few feet from me.
I freeze.
I’m sucked into another place and time. I’m back in eighth grade, and I’m sitting at my desk while taking notes for health class.
“People who self-harm are looking for relief from their pain,” my teacher had said.
Relief from their pain.
As I come back to reality, my heart rate picks up as a thought occurs to me. I can take away my pain. My palms start sweating because it’s not a good idea. I know it’s not. Someone could see the marks and ask questions that I don’t want to answer, don’t want to talk about. I don’t want anyone to know how damaged and worthless I am. I don’t want to talk about how and why I’m so shattered, but the idea is wiggling and worming into my brain, and it is growing stronger.
My gut is a tangled mess, but my eyes don’t stray from the box cutter. The possibility of relieving some of this ache is taking over my body, making it grow rigid. With a trembling hand, I lean over without thinking, and I grasp the box cutter tightly. My heart pounds hard, and sweat breaks across my brow as I slowly, centimeter by centimeter, slide the blade up. I don’t look away from the sharp edge as the breath from my lungs comes in short, quick pants. My palms are sweating so much that I switch the box cutter to my left hand to wipe the moisture from my palm. Tears form a steady path down my face while I put the cutter back in my right hand and gently press the blade against my wrist bone, but it’s not piercing—not yet.
Breathing deeply, I hold the air in and clench my eyes closed, and then I drag the blade across my skin. The stinging cut registers, and in that moment, I understand. As my mind blanks and washes away the pain and the shaking of my body, I completely understand why people do this.
I’ve found a new drug.
In that brief moment, I feel pain, yes, but not the ragged grief. In that flash of time, from the adrenaline and the stinging distraction on my wrist, my pain is replaced with nothingness. The aching throb from my shallow cut clears my head, and my shoulders sag with relief.
When I open my eyes, I almost laugh because I can see the morbid poetry of the red rising from my skin. My blood is my pain, and by releasing a small drop of blood, I’ve relieved my pain. It’s almost like I have an outward representation of what’s inside.
But soon, the feeling fades, bringing me back to reality, and as shame sets in, my face crumples. What have I been reduced to? I slowly lower myself until my back is lying on the ground, and I am staring up at the ceiling. My shoulders shake as I close my eyes and cry, letting my grief and self-hatred consume me.
Without looking, I retract the blade, and I clutch the box cutter close to my chest. I let out a frustrated growl because I know that this won’t be the last time. I will have to be careful so that no questions are asked, but maybe I can just do it when I’m as desperate as I was just now.
That’s not so bad, right?
A few more tears slip out, and I curl into the fetal position as I struggle with myself. I know this isn’t the answer. It’s wrong and disgraceful. My chest aches with shame. I should have never done this in the first place. Now, I know how it feels to have the pain taken away, even briefly, and my fingers twitch to do it again.
Why can’t I be stronger?
Why can’t I shoulder this?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
A year later, my roommate, Kristina, bangs on our dorm room door and yells, “Come on!”
“I’ll be out in a second!”
“Fine. I’ll meet you downstairs. Hurry up.”
I hear her footsteps leave, and when our dorm door closes, I breathe a sigh of relief that I’m finally by myself.
It’s been a year since I first started doing this, but I’m getting good at controlling the urge. The ability to control it gives me a sense of relief, and I think going away to college has helped. Time, a change of scenery, and of course, my blade has helped me to be somewhat content with my life. I’m proud of the fact that I’m getting stronger, and I’ve only cut myself four times since I’ve been here. It’s only situations like these when I need it—the relief.
Somehow, I let Kristina talk me into going to a party tonight. I’ve never been to one, and I don’t like crowds. I break out in a cold sweat, and elephants start tap-dancing in my gut just from thinking about it. I palm the box cutter in my hand, and just holding it begins to calm my shaking body. It knows what is coming—the break from the pulsating anxiety.
I engage the blade, and then I move the thick leather bracelet concealing the evidence of my weakness. I don’t like that I do this. In fact, I hate myself for it, but it gives me control, and it takes away the bad emotions—the pain, the anxiety, the feeling of worthlessness.
I make the quick cut, and my wrist stings, but everything else melts away. Everything is totally and blissfully blank, except for my throbbing wrist. I close my eyes and smile in relief.
But a few moments later, the nothingness fades. As reality begins to trickle back in, I grimace at my bleeding wrist, hating my weakness. Ugh! I shake my head, trying to clear the feelings. My fingers twitch to do it again, but I remind myself that I’m in control, and it doesn’t control me.
Blowing out a deep breath, I put my leather cuff back in place and toss my blade back into my purse where it always stays. I leave the room to meet up with Kristina. As I head down the hall, I shake out my arms, trying to get rid of the residual bad feelings.
I can do this.
Who knows? Maybe opening myself up to new experiences will be a step in the right direction—a step toward the happiness that I truly want to find.
“Will you hold my drink? I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Oh, sure,” Kristina says as she takes the red Solo cup from me.
I’ve stuck to my roommate like glue even though I don’t know her all that well. I’m still a little jittery about meeting new people and making small talk. I’m horrible at it. I recognize a few people from my classes as I make my way to the bathroom, and I tentatively smile at them. Thankfully, no one is in line, which is surprising for a frat party. I do my business, wash my hands, and make my way back to Kristina.
When I get to the spot where she was talking with some guy, she’s not there. I scan the room, looking for her, but I don’t see her anywhere. I do notice my cup with my name scrawled on it. Picking it up from the end table, I take a sip and look around the room again. I start wandering around the frat house, nervously sipping my beer.
The longer time ticks by, my stomach starts to churn. Where the hell is she?
Less than twenty minutes later, my vision starts to become fuzzy, and I blink my eyes hard a few times to get them to clear. With a furrowed brow, I peer down at my nearly empty cup.
This is only my second beer. Why am I so wobbly?
Taking a staggering step, a prickling sensation runs along my scalp with the realization that I’m really fucked-up, and I need to leave. I think I’m starting to panic, and numbness is seeping into my body.
I need to find my roommate. Where the fuck did she go?
I stumble as I reach the kitchen, and I bump into someone.
“Hey, watch it!”
“Sthorry,” I slur. I lift my unsteady head, and with narrowed eyes and a lot of effort, I meet his gaze.
The guy’s tight face softens, and his brow furrows. “Are you okay?”
I blink slowly at him a few times. “I think I need to sit down.”
“I think this one had too much to drink. I’ll take her upstairs to lie down,” some guy says as he drapes an arm around my shoulder.
I don’t argue because the numbness is weighing down my limbs, and I think I really should lie down. He guides me upstairs and catches me when I trip on a step. I’m barely able to stand up as he opens a door and brings me into a dark room.
Why the hell am I so fucked-up?
“Thanks,”
I mumble as he helps me lie down.
In the back of my head, I’m a little weirded out that I’m lying on some stranger’s bed, but I’m so tired, and my limbs are so heavy that I don’t really care.
Warm lips touch mine, and a tongue finds its way into my mouth. The shock of the kiss wakes me up a tiny bit, and I pry my eyes open and try to turn my head.
“What are you doing?”
“Relax,” he whispers as his hand travels up my shirt.
“No.” I try to brush his hand away, but I can’t even keep my eyes open, let alone lift my hand.
Alarm pricks at my brain, and I know I should be freaking the fuck out right now, but I’m not. All I want to do is sleep.
Two years later, I’m running late. After the night that I refuse to think about, I moved back home and started commuting to the local state college. I’m fucking exhausted because I closed at the pizza place last night, and when I got home, I couldn’t sleep. I kept having nightmares, and when I woke up, I cut. Five times in one night is a record for me. I wear two leather cuffs now, and my wrists are always sore, which is a good thing—kind of. Sometimes, I rub the cuffs to irritate the healing wounds, so I can escape out of my head. But then, I’m reminded that I’m losing control.
With shaking hands, I steer into the parking lot, and I can’t find a parking spot.
I’m gonna be fucking late to class. Goddamn it! I can’t fucking do anything right.
With one hand still on the steering wheel, I use the other to rub the cuff into my sore skin. I grit my teeth when the pain radiates down my arm, but I welcome the sting as it clears my mind.
Finally, I spot someone pulling out, and I turn on my blinker to indicate I’m taking this spot. As I wait, I run a trembling hand through my hair, and when I pull my hand back, blood is seeping down my arm. My lips turn down as I stare at my arm in disgust.
I’m so fucking pathetic.
Reaching into the glove compartment, I pull out a few napkins, take off my cuff, and wipe my arm. Tears well up in my eyes and blur my vision. I’m cracking. I know it. I thought I could control this, but I can’t. I close my eyes and huff out a breath as I pinch my leg to stop my self-hatred from surfacing and dragging me down.
Worth It Page 3
