The Stairs

 

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A short story

I vaguely remember what the bathroom looked like. There was a large mirror to my left and above a cream, faux-marble counter. The white wooden door of a medicine cabinet peeked out from behind the left side of his head. To the right was nothing but the hazy glow of white street lamps trying to shine through a frosted window.

Up until that night, I had never been that excruciatingly angry. He was practically begging. “Please.” “Why not?” “Just for a minute.” But I couldn’t, I didn’t want to. Here we were, locked in a dark bathroom on the second floor of a house that belonged to someone I did not know. I can still hear him trying to charm me into giving in. He had a hold of my right wrist and was gently tugging it, trying to persuade me to my knees. All the while smiling. And begging.

I said no. Nicely. And I said it repeatedly. But he kept trying to sweet-talk me. “Don’t you love me?” “C’mon, please.” Finally out of frustration, I snapped at him. “Get your whore Andrea to do it.” It was petty, I know. But what can I say? I was only 15. I didn’t know any other way to behave. As the words flew out of my mouth, I pushed him away from me. I was still so disgusted about his previous indiscretions that I figured what better way to get him to leave me alone. How we got from inside the bathroom to out in the hallway, I don’t remember. But he was beyond pissed. I could hear him mumble something as he turned toward the stairs.

I don't know what exactly he said, but it was enough at the time to make me feel like I had just been gutted. I was nauseous and angry and hurt. In the seconds it took him to walk toward the top of the stairs, I took a tally of all of the hurtful things he had ever done, all of the nasty, hateful things he had ever said, and all of the rules and regulations that came with being with him. In those few seconds, I wanted him to feel every minute of pain that he had ever caused me. I had every intention of hurting him. And I believed it would have been his fault.

He had pushed me to the edge. I wanted him to feel like a caged animal living in fear. I wanted him to know what it was like to be bruised and beaten, and then have those same wounds kissed better by the person who inflicted them.

I fully intended to push him down those stairs.

I envisioned him rolling down to the small landing, looking up at me, and instantly understanding my pain. He would never raise another hand to me. He would never tell me how repulsive or worthless I was. I would finally be able to breathe.

And I fully intended to push him down those stairs.

But he caught himself on the railing, the toes of his shoes hanging over the edge of the top step. As he realized my intensions, he turned to look at me with the most evil face I have ever seen. His eyes were wild with rage. His lips pressed so tightly together that they were white. By the time I blinked, he was in front of me, pushing me backwards.

It felt like slow motion. My body folding in half. My arms and head flying forward. My feet scrambling to regain their balance. My back smacking against a door. I looked up to see the shine of a cheap gold door-knob. When I looked back down the hall, he was disappearing down the stairs. I sat, winded, back against the door, waiting to regain what little composure I could. Between recalling his ineffective persuasion, my unsuccessful assault, and trying to restore what little dignity I had left, I managed to pick myself up from the floor, straighten my clothes, and plaster the biggest shit-eating grin on my face. I walked down the stairs, mentally chastising each one.

As I turned to walk out of the house, I held my head high. I chatted with his friends as if nothing had happened. He sulked. His anger at me, and the fact that I honestly didn't give two shits about it, gave me the most incredible feeling of power. Less than an hour later, he got over it. We finally ended a few weeks after. Not because I tried to kill him, but because he was tired of abusing me. Of course, I was too weak and broken to see that he was destroying me.

For the next few days, I was the one begging. “Please.” “Come back.” “I don’t understand.” I had let him beat me into complete submission. For months he convinced me that I was, and would continue to be, nothing without him. I was alone. And the realization of being completely alone horrified me.

Two years and an entirely different relationship later, he came to see me at a friend’s house. He was holding my hand. And again, begging. But this time for forgiveness. And another chance. As he talked about how lonely his life had been without me and how he knew what an asshole he had been, I’m not going to lie, I found myself considering it. For a brief moment his words got lost in the memories – conversations during drives home, declarations made on hilltops, a ring created from a bread tie. I blindly gave him everything. And he took complete advantage of it.

Somehow I found the courage to tell him no; how his current misery was nothing compared to how he made me feel during those last few months we were together. I know he was never 100% all in. And I couldn't do it again. I couldn't surrender myself and expect to survive the fallout. In spite of everything, I don't hate him. Surprisingly I never have. It's like he had a free pass to be the biggest piece of shit on the planet. I just overlooked all of the hurt and destruction like it was dust on the mantle. I know I would never go back. But at the same time, I don't blame others for giving him a shot. 

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