BY JAIME GADSON
I was sitting at the table. I wanted to be in a quiet space because I knew he was in one of his moods. I thought that if I just removed myself, he would not take it out on me. The children had gone upstairs and I was downstairs by myself, sitting at the table.
When he came into the room, I could feel his energy, but I said not a word. He sat down beside me. I could feel his eyes beaming at me, but I was not going to stir him up. He looked at me with all the anger that was in his heart and said, “I’m sick of you.”
Then he pushed me onto the floor — in my own kitchen — and he climbed on top of me and placed both of his hands around my throat and began squeezing and shaking.
I was in shock. “Why? Why would you do this to me?” I thought. “Don’t you love me? Why would you hurt me?”
I looked at his eyes, piercing me. The first time he did this, he released already. Why hasn’t he released me yet?
He’s going to kill me.
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