Shallow River

by H.D. Carlton

He’s tall—over six feet, but I’ve never been good at guessing heights. Ink black hair, a little longer on top than the sides, vivid green eyes that rival the grass outside, and tattoos. Tattoos everywhere.

Abusers don’t only manipulate their victims, but they get off on making other’s believe that they’re upstanding people. They trick them into thinking that they would never hurt a fly, so when accusations come to the surface, they’re considered outrageous.

“He’s broken you so effortlessly, the pain hasn’t even hit you yet.”

Why do men always chalk women’s worth up to the shape of their body and how they look? It makes no fucking sense to me when our bodies are all going to go to hell when we get old anyways.

“If you end up in my handcuffs, it won’t be because I’m arresting you.”

I can’t believe I actually stayed this long. I can’t believe I let him treat me this way. The physical and sexual aspect isn’t even the worst part; it’s the fucking mind games he played. It’s not just mental abuse, it’s mental warfare and can be more dangerous than a raised hand. The gaslighting and manipulation are what convinces victims to stay and endure. They train you to protect yourself, ultimately changing every part of you until you no longer recognize yourself. You’re a prisoner in your own home. There are limitations on where you can go, how long you stay out, who you’re allowed to see, and god forbid you hang out with anyone without their supervision. Too scared to look nice in fear of accusations of cheating. But you’re going to leave the house looking like that? God, you’re embarrassing, put some make-up on at least. But only wear it when I’m around, otherwise you’re trying to impress other men. You’re dressed up, who are you looking nice for? Do you want men to look at you like that? Do you want them to fuck you? Please, baby, I get so worried that someone better is going to come along and take you away from me. You’re too good for me. I don’t deserve you. You’re going to the store? Why, to cheat on me? Are you going there to flirt with other men? You’re out with your friend? I bet you’re talking about other guys. Why would you hang out with them without me, what are you hiding?

That’s what everyone always says, right? I’d never let a man hit me. You don’t even realize that’s what has happened until it’s too late. You’ve already been pushed down the stairs and slapped across the face. There are already hand and fingerprint bruises marring your arms and neck. And you’ve already told yourself he won’t ever do it again. That he’s sorry. He’s stressed. You were wrong. Bad, bad girl. Feel guilty for making him lay hands on you. You deserved that. Leave? He’ll kill himself. No one will ever love you the way he does, and you love him, too. You don’t want him to die.