Thursday 9th May, 2024
The moon is full
And the red mist has fallen once again
The beast, unleashed, from inside my love
Prowls across my kitchen floor
His animalistic urges demanding more
More of me than I have left to give
I reach my hand up to his face
I know he’s in there, locked inside
He’s not the monster that sits in his place
He snarls, his wolf like claws take hold of my throat
His eyes flash, his mouth foams
Fear pins me to the floor as the beast tightens it’s grip
Will this be the night my life succumbs to his wrath?
He glares, he howls, spit falls from his mouth
I dare not wipe it from my hair
I dare not move, I dare not breathe
My body tense, his pumped, twice it’s normal size
The madness embodies him, embroils him. It is him.
Tap
Tap
Tap
A knock on the door, it is the priest
The red mist dissipates in an instant
And my love is himself again.
Living with abuse is like living in a gothic horror novel, or perhaps that’s just the way we romanticise it. Our abusers become the heroes of the story, like Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, they become the victims, they absolve themselves of responsibility by telling us they cannot control this anger that grips them, that they don’t know what they’re doing, they just “black out” this isn’t the real them.
This is their story, they have written it, they are writers of great fiction, their anger manufactured. How do we know this? Because the instant anyone else appears, a vicar, a police officer, a schoolteacher perhaps, the charade is dropped and they are sane and calm once more.
