"Don't tell Mommy," he said.

By AJ Brown

 
Do you know me?

 

I'm the woman in the cubicle down the hall who sits alone at lunch gazing out the window and longing for a better life.  I have a handful of friends, maybe one or two of which I fully trust, but still they don't know my life; don't know what I go through each evening.  I never go out—at least not for fun—and the mileage is checked on my car regularly to guarantee I go where I say I am going to go and nowhere else.

 

I'm the woman who never mentions my husband in good terms unless I am saying 'he means well,' or 'he didn't mean to do it.'  It's a lie, but he is my man and I must protect his image.

 

I'm the woman who wears long sleeve shirts in the middle of summer and I sometimes wince when someone touches my arm or back.  I wear little make up unless it is to hide something I wish for no one else to see.

 

I'm the woman who can't keep a job because of threats posed against my employer or some co-workers by my husband just because they looked at me. 

 

I'm the woman who sits in a bathroom stall crying silently and hoping no one can hear me when they come in. 

 

I can never stay late to help out.  I can never arrive early if needed.  If I don't answer my phone, it could be a bad thing later on.

 

I'm the woman who is terrified when I get pregnant and I never tell anyone.  I'm the woman who has had three abortions and one miscarriage—but no one knows, but him, God, the doctor and me.  I cry myself to sleep most nights.

 

Do you know me?

 

I'm the boy who stays in his room all day, careful to remain quiet for fear of waking the angry Saint of Alcohol.  I learned at an early age to be seen and not heard, and then to not be seen.  Playing Hide and Seek is my favorite game, though I hope and pray he never seeks.

 

I'm the clumsy one. I always have bruises, sometimes a black eye.  The stairs and I don't get along.  I don't care much for irons either and sometimes I run into walls.  I swear by all that is good, that is the truth. 

 

I often go to bed hungry.

 

I'm the boy who has seen his mother beaten to a bloody mess and left for dead.  Then watched her get dragged off to the bedroom where her screams become cries and then soft sobs.

 

I'm the boy who falls asleep in class because I didn’t get any the night before.  I have the so-so grades and will probably drop out of school.

 

Who knows what will happen?  I might be like him, drinking my life away, beating my wife and hating my kids; blaming them for ruining my life. 

 

Yeah, that might be me one day. 

 

Do you know me?

 

I'm the young girl who once worshipped the ground he walked on.  I loved to hear him tell stories.  I loved it when he took me places and called me 'Daddy's little girl.'  That's me.

 

I'm the young girl who bled and hurt so terribly bad after that first time that I thought I would die.  I didn't know what to do.

 

"Don't tell Mommy," he said. 

 

Why not?  That is what always came to mind.  Why not?  But, I never did tell.  I never tell anyone. 

 

I'm the young girl who cries herself to sleep at night, as I lay in my own blood and his semen, too afraid to get out of bed to wash up—if he hears he may come back. 

 

I would live my life in fear of the next time he came in my room.  All men remind me of him and I can trust none of them—no matter how much I desire to.  For me, it's simple.  Men are all alike and all they want is one thing.  I learned that at a very young age.

 

Do you know me?

 

I'm the woman who left him several times only to go back for fear of what he would do to me if he ever caught up with me.  The beatings weren't so bad.  Yeah, I know I had to go to the hospital with a fractured skull once and have constant headaches now.

 

I'm the woman who so many people, including loved ones, told me to get away from him.  They would help me.  Just trust them.  I tried.  I really did.  But I didn't want to be alone the rest of my life. 

 

He really wasn't that bad.

 

Did you know me? 

 

I'm the one they found in a ditch the other day, my body battered, my life over. 

 

I'm the one they found in the trunk of an abandoned car out on Route 11—an old dirt road rarely traveled by anyone for any reason. 

 

I'm the one who died.

 

Did you know me?

 

***

 

Do you know me? 

 

I hold out my hand to you now.  I tell you it will be okay.  I tell you to trust me and all the pain will go away.  I tell you to press charges and stay away. I tell you to seek shelter any way you possibly can. 

 

You are a person, not a possession. 

 

I offer you all the help I can give you, but I can do nothing for you if you don't take the first step. 

 

Take my hand.  Don't become a number, a statistic.  Get help before it's too late.  I never want to hear someone say to me:

 

"Did you know her?"

 

"Did you know him?"