It had been a week since I last saw Gregory. A week of torment. A week of guilt that pressed so heavily on my chest I could barely breathe. I promised myself I wouldn't go back to him until I broke free from Raymond. Until I ended this prison I was calling a relationship.
But how does one break free from a man like Raymond?
To tell you the truth, officer— I was restless that whole week. My mind was not at peace.
Every time I closed my eyes, I pictured his face, not as he once was when I first fell for him, but as he had become: harsh, cruel, quick to strike. I thought of simply packing my bags and slipping away, vanishing before he returned from work. But deep down I knew. He would find me. And when he did, the beating would not just bruise my skin; it would send me to the hospital, maybe even the grave.
So I planned carefully. I waited for the weekend, Sunday night to be precise, when Raymond would sink into his cushion, his eyes glued to football, beer in hand, mind elsewhere.
That night, I unlocked the back door, just in case. I took the car keys — mine in the first place, though he always acted like he owned everything I breathed near. I packed my belongings into two bags, quiet as a thief in the house I paid rent, and carried them to the car. I even slid the gate latch open, heart pounding, in case I needed to escape in seconds.
Then I came back inside.
There he was, hunched at the edge of the cushion, face tense in anticipation of a goal. The flicker of the television light painted his features, making him look even more severe. My mouth went dry. I wanted to speak, but nothing came out. I went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face, whispering prayers under my breath.
When I stepped back into the room, I forced my voice steady. "Raymond."
He didn't hear me.
"Raymond."
"Yeah?" he muttered, eyes never leaving the screen.
I inhaled deeply and released the words in one breath before courage abandoned me. "Raymond, I have to leave you."
Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence. The only sound was the commentator on the TV, his lips moving faster than a snake.
Raymond's hand reached for the remote. He muted the television completely, stood up slowly, and turned towards me. His face was unreadable, too calm — and that calm terrified me more than a shout.
"What did you say, my dear?" His voice was soft, deadly, like the calm before a storm that tears the roof from one's house.
"I… I can't go on like this. I'm sorry, Raymond. I have to leave."
For a second, I thought he might smile, might even let me go. He laughed. But it wasn't a happy laugh —it was hollow, bitter, sharp as broken glass.
"The hell you are," he snapped suddenly, the laughter twisting into a snarl. His eyes were fire now, burning into me.
I stood my ground. For once, I didn't cower. I didn't look away. My heart was racing, but I refused to let him see fear.
"I'm tired of this thing we call a relationship," I said, voice trembling but firm.
"Of course you're tired," he spat. "Look here, Timi. You don't make decisions here. I do." He thumped his chest, as though his word was law.
Maybe another day, another version of me would have backed down. But that day, Officer, I was finished.
"Yes, you're right. I let you ride over me. I let you treat me like I was nothing, and I stayed silent. But I won't sit and be a glorified punching bag when God gave me legs to walk and eyes to see. It's time for me to leave, Raymond."
"Time for what?" He took a step closer, his shadow stretching across the room.
I glanced sideways, checking the back door I had left slightly open, my one fragile escape. When I turned back—
He was already in front of me.
"Raymond?" My voice caught. Surprise. Shock. Apprehension.
The first blow came before I could take a breath. His fist crashed into my stomach. The air left my lungs in a cry. I staggered back, clutching myself.
"You're ungrateful," he snarled, lips peeled back like an animal. His hand shot out again, another brutal punch to my gut. Pain ripped through me. "I gave you everything. I looked at your ugly self every single day!" His breath was hot, foul, blasting in my face.
"Stop… please," I begged, voice ragged, retreating with each blow.
"No, you stop right there!" His eyes were wild now, spitting venom. "You think any man will look at you twice? A fat hippo like you? You think anyone will touch you? You're nothing, Timi. Nothing!"
That was the last straw. Something deep inside me snapped — something dark, something cold. It was as if the pain, the humiliation, the years of fear crystallised into ice around my heart.
I let out a cry from somewhere deep within and my hand found the heavy vase on the side stool. Before he could strike again, I swung it with everything in me.
The vase smashed against his head with a sickening crack.
"Jesus!" he roared, stumbling backwards, clutching his skull.
I didn't wait to see blood. I didn't wait to see anything. I ran.
The living room blurred past me, the sound of his enraged howl following close behind. My hands shook as I fumbled with the car door. My chest burned, my stomach throbbed, but fear kept me alive.
His shadow loomed in the doorway, and his scream tore through the night.
I buckled the seatbelt then slammed the car into gear. The tyres screeched against the ground, the gate flung wide, and I sped into the darkness, my body trembling, my mind screaming.
I didn't know where I was going. Only that I would never go back.