Trigger Warning: Includes internalized homophobia, abuse, and vulgar language.
PROMPT: At the intersection, I could go right and head home — but turning left would take me to..,
At the intersection, I could go right and head home — but turning left would take me to his house. The house of the man I feared the most and loved the most. The house of my kryptonite, in both the worst and most amazing way. The man I knew like the back of my hand, and the man I knew nothing about, though I feared to admit it. The man I would spend thousands of dollars to be near, and to get away from.
Leslie. The love of my life and the antagonist in my story. The man whom I loved so dearly, and the man I hated with my whole being. We had so many great memories that overshadowed the bad. But the second I thought of the bad, it made me be overcome with rage.
All of the lovely dates, despite him denying his love for me. All the heart-bursting kisses, but all of the skin-bruising hits. The fear I carried in my bones whenever I was near him, but the same mind-numbing love I carried in my heart. At the same time I felt the urge to kiss him, I felt the urge to leave, to flee. All the skin cracking punches, followed by blood and bruises. All the empty concealer containers in the trash by my vanity. All the times he screamed in my face that he never would love me, that men being with men were shameful.
But then I thought of the good moments. All the kisses and the hugs, the tender and sweet moments, even after the fights. Every time he apologized, every one I believed was so genuine, so heartfelt, all for it happen again. In mere hours.
The tear stains on his shirt because I was crying about him. He stood there, comforting me, saying it was fine, but also saying I was being overdramatic.
He was home, but he was also prison. He made me fearful and fearless. He was my everything. No matter what. Whether he hated me or loved me, he was my everything. Whether he was the love — or loss — of my life. He was my poison. No matter how much he denied being queer, I’d be there. I couldn’t leave him, no matter the hit.
It’s not like I’ve been hospitalized many times, twice only I believe. He loved me, just had a strange way of showing it. One more hit, I’d tell myself. One more promise broken, and I’m gone. But I couldn’t. I loved him. He was all I could see myself with. I knew I deserved it. I knew what I was doing, and I knew what to avoid saying or doing. But I told him I loved him, I said I wanted more, I slipped up and told people we were dating. I deserved those hits. I deserved that punishment and pain.
I knew I could fix him, I just had to try. It was a tough job, but I was willing to take it on. By myself. My family and I didn’t really talk anymore. Leslie wasn’t willing to go to therapy, and I wasn’t going to force him.
Last time I tried to was the first time I went to the hospital. He never came to visit me there. I lied and said I had gotten beaten up on the streets. He had dropped me off in some alley and called the ambulance then fled. The day I was released, I got an Uber to his place. I knew he would ignore it.
He never regretted it. He said it built character. He said I was his and I should be obedient, so I was. Leslie was my one and only, and I had come to terms with that while lying in the hospital bed a second time, after being there for a week. He had hit me so much I had internal bleeding. But I was fine. Everything was fine. I had gone back to him just as quickly as before.
But now, I took that left. I drove down the street and felt the same dread in my stomach. I couldn’t wait to see him, but I would rather do anything than do this to myself again. I would rather die than feel his bruising hit. The sting afterwards though, was something I craved. It reminded me of him.
As I drove to his house and pulled in the small driveway, in his huge neighborhood with houses so far you couldn’t hear cries for help, with woods so deep and wide, no one could cover all the ground, I felt a sense of fear and security. As I locked my car, I thought about how stupid it was, that no one would steal my car and I was only hurting myself. If I got hit again, I didn’t have time to fumble for keys, and if I needed the hospital and he needed a cover, he’d just drive in my car. He’d be mad if he couldn’t get in.
So I unlocked it. I went inside his house and saw him waiting. He hugged me, treating me like a fragile object. I accepted it, of course. We began to watch a movie, and I tried to kiss him.
Smack! I winced, but in all truthfulness, it was a familiar feeling. We had kissed many times, but I was never the one to initiate.
“That’s so fucking gay. You know I don’t do that, faggot.” Those words hurt. I looked down and nodded. I murmured a quick sorry and scooted away.
“Why don’t you love me? Why do you string me along? You’ll tell me you love me then hit me like I’m nothing.” He looked at me, and the annoyed look in his eyes quickly turned to fury. Next thing I knew, it was dark. I was laying on the cold, hard ground, and I felt my ribs crunching as I was being forcefully stomped on. This was going to be yet another hospital trip. Then I felt something… blood. Lots of it. The ground was soaked with it, and I knew at that moment I was going to die. If only I had turned right.
It carried on for hours until it went entirely dark. If only I had went right. If only I could stop loving him from my shallow grave.