Dear Karen,
You wore so much makeup that day.
I didn’t notice it at first; you have dark skin, and since you were working downstairs that day, I didn’t see you for a while.
But then we went for that drive at lunch. I forget who suggested it; if it was you, or if by that time, I had started to wonder why you hadn’t called up to my desk yet to say hello. But once we were walking to the parking lot through that gray spring noon, I realized something was wrong. You didn’t have that normal bounce in your step, that aura of happiness and nonchalance that gives you so much personality. You were cautious, almost dainty, and stepped like the ground beneath you was covered in hatching butterflies that you didn’t dare squash under your soles. You seemed like you wanted to say something, like you wanted to let go of a secret, but were also so afraid that if you said anything, things wouldn’t be the same anymore.
And they weren’t.
“Hank beat the shit out of me.”
When you told me that, I didn’t comprehend what you were saying. You said it in such a low and uncertain voice, like a little girl struggling to sound out an unfamiliar new word in front of her classmates. And you said it with a bit of a giggle on the end of it, a sound that still haunts me. It wasn’t the indication of easy mirth like it’s intended to be; no, it was a pained sound, the result of your body and your mind struggling to understand what had happened and exhaustedly acknowledging together that by voicing what had been done to you, you would finally have to deal with its reality. But when you repeated yourself and that same awful giggle was there, I finally caught up with your words, and I looked at you again.
I saw what he had done to you. The swollen eye. The bruised cheekbones and nose. Their purply, agitated flesh hiding under layers of caked-on foundation. The grin that came to your face as you repeated yourself, because again, your body and your spirit were not ready for this new reality.
I instantly hated him. It didn’t matter that he and I had hung out after work and drank beers and played video games all those times. It didn’t matter that he’d introduced me to my then-girlfriend and set us up on our first date. He had crossed a line. He was now the enemy. I felt a rush of righteous anger. I felt that stereotypical macho guy bullshit that all the movies and books glorify. I wanted to hurt him. Maybe kill him.
But I didn’t. Instead, I just pulled my car to the side of the road and talked with you. And as we talked, I’m ashamed to say that I was happy. Not at your beating. I was shocked, damaged, and disoriented because my friend had been hurt. But simultaneously, I saw an opportunity. I now had a chance to live out what I had read about in all of my comic books and seen in so many movies. This knight finally had his sacred quest, had finally found his windmill-dragon to fight against. I could be every hero I had dreamed about since I was a little kid, whose creeds I had sworn to live out if I ever got the chance. I could be brave and strong and do the right thing. I could be a hero.
Your hero.
And because I wanted to be a hero, because I wanted to do right by you, I stood with you. You were talking about quitting your job, about moving away from everything and starting over. I argued against that. I know you were in pain, but I saw that as a profound injustice. You shouldn’t have had to run. Not from the life you had built on your own, not your job and your classes and your friends. Not because of him. And eventually, you decided against leaving.
Maybe I should have let you.
But I stayed with you. I was invested in your cause. Soon, in fact, I began to think of it as our cause. I didn’t ever want you to be alone in any of it. I saw how close you seemed to be to cracking, and I only wanted to keep you going. You had just started grad school, and were already the first in your family to graduate from college. You had a good job in our firm, and you had just bought a brand-new condo that you were so proud of. I didn’t want you to collapse into yourself and lose it all. Not because of him. It wouldn’t be fair. It wouldn’t be right. And so, I went with you to the security office at work so that the guards would know what Hank looked like and keep him off the property. I went with you to talk to our boss to let her know what happened. You were still so rattled then that you could hardly get any words out. The sounds coming from your mouth instantly transformed into slow, silent tears as you attempted to say what was going on with you and why you would need some time off in the coming weeks. You looked at me through those blurry eyes, and I was glad to speak the words you could not. I convinced you to see Sarah, who had survived her own abuse in the past, and who volunteers with a woman’s shelter here in town. She told you to be strong, and that there was nothing wrong with you, and I saw the relief on your face when you came out of the coffee shop from talking with her, the tension sloughing off of you like an old skin. I stayed with you. I took you on hikes in the mountains during the weekends to relieve stress. I texted you in the evenings to remind you to stay strong. I was happy to do it. I really was. I had a purpose. I was making a difference.
You were my warrior during those days, do you know that? You were my St. George, going out to slay the dragon, and I was right there with you, waiting to help you put on your armor and give you the sword to plunge deep through its heart. And when your time came to strike, you didn’t falter. Even though it was painful to talk about, even though you had to miss work and school and answer so many uncomfortable questions, you made yourself available to the Sheriff’s Office as they built their case against Hank. You gave them your words and your body and your secrets. You became evidence, words typed on paper and photographs stored on a computer, documentation of your deepest hurts. You became a statistic in the name of the greater good, and in the end, they used you to put Hank away in jail for a year. And once he was there, you divorced him, separated yourself fully from him.
I breathed a sigh of relief when you told me. You had done it. We had done it. The dragon was dead. I was so proud of you. You had triumphed. You had overcome. You talked about moving onward and upward, and you started to call yourself a survivor. Your social media overflowed with inspirational quotes about triumphing over hurt, and you got out and saw the world, traveling to new places and experiencing new cultures with your friends. You talked about dating again, about finding the man you deserved. You had turned your scars from wounds into the foundation for a new life. I was happy for you. I was happy for myself. I had finally done something heroic. I had finally fought against evil, and in some small way, triumphed against it. I had helped you get your happy ending.
It was over.
Why couldn’t it be over?
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