You Don’t Want Me

She walks in the door and before she can open her mouth, she breaks down. He growls at her, “What the fuck is it now?” Part of her is tempted to walk back out the door, get in her car and drive away, for good. But instead, she shakes her head. “Nothing,” she mutters, wiping her tears and going down the hallway to put her things away. “Get your shit together, for Christ’s sake!” He yells after her. “You’re going to kill yourself with this crap.” She shuts the door softly behind her and undresses, giving up the button down shirt for a more casual t-shirt. She flips off her shoes and looks longingly at the bed as she sits on its edge and puts her socks on. She pulls a sweater over her thin frame, knowing he hates them. It gives her a pause, however slight, when she does something she knows he’ll hate. But in the end, she shivers and puts it on. She counts to ten before opening up the door. The blast almost knocks her backward, physically. “Really? A sweater? It’s nine hundred degrees outside!” She shrugs and pushes past him. She reaches the fridge and starts pulling out ingredients. Her favorite song repeats in her mind, as she pays him no attention. She whips out the cutting board, reaches for the knives. She chops, watching the blade slice through the peppers with ease. He slinks back into the living room, back to his tablet. In no time at all, she’ll have dinner on the table, hot and ready for him. Only then will his voice lower and his mood change. Only then will she feel safe laying her head on the pillow and closing her eyes.

Google Glass PSA about Domestic Abuse (

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