Shallow River

by H.D. Carlton

She will not cower from her roots, yet she bends like a rose bush for my brother. Her thorns may bite, but ultimately, he will clip them off until she’s left with a weak backbone that will easily snap beneath his hands. Everything that once made her vibrant and beautiful will wilt, and eventually, he’ll toss her aside when there’s nothing left of her.

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 cares more about his reputation than the woman he’s abusing.

“He’s good. I’ll give him that.” When I frown, he clarifies, “He’s broken you so effortlessly, the pain hasn’t even hit you yet.”

If it were the other way around, Ryan would have already called me a whore for attracting attention. Maybe I should do the same.

I’m ruining this entire night. It seems that since the moment I got in the car, I keep saying the wrong thing.

“Did you not see all those men staring at you? I bet you liked it, huh?”

He’s right. This dress did make me look like a whore. Men were looking at me with hunger in their eyes. What did I expect wearing something like this? This is all my fault. I ruined a perfectly good night.

Mascara runs down my face, making me look like the dirty whore that I am. I

I cried myself to sleep. I cried myself awake. I cried myself to class.

If Ryan is worried about his image, surely a distraught girlfriend will tarnish that. I can’t do that to him. He’s worked too hard to get to where he is, despite his father’s reputation.

The entire walk, I replay last night in my head, going over every single detail and obsessing over what I could’ve said or done differently. There are so many things I wish I could change, starting from wearing a more conservative dress to not arguing with him so much when he said something I didn’t like. I always have to argue with everything he says instead of just picking my battles. Not everything is worth fighting over.

“Please don’t call yourself that,” he pleads quietly, but gruffly. The soft tone catches me off guard. I look at him with confusion. Not only was I not expecting him to care what I called myself, I certainly wasn’t expecting him to ask so… nicely. Ryan’s always demanding things of me, expecting my compliance, and calling me names when he doesn’t always get it. “What?” “You’re not a whore, River. You were repeatedly raped and were forced into those situations because you were slowly dying from hunger.” Fire blazes from his eyes. I’m not sure how, but I know it’s not directed toward me, but for me. And I don’t know how I feel about that. I open my mouth. I almost say the words. Ryan thinks so. But I already know what his response will be.

I dig my teeth into my bottom lip. I’ve never had a man give me a choice. It’s always been take, take, take. But the thought of Mako owning my body… God,

“Then give that privilege to a man who deserves it. If you want a man to own you, then let him. But that’s not something he has a right to without your consent,” he says, his voice so, so deep and guttural.

“The only way I want to own a woman is by owning her pleasure. I want her body to sing for me—a tune that only I can hear. I want her body to gravitate towards mine like a moth to a flame. And I want her to grow to dislike the feeling of being so empty when my cock isn’t inside of her.”

I’m soiled again. Tainted. Dirty. Stained.

because I can’t just fucking stay away. It’s my own fault. It’s my fault I was in that house. It’s my fault I was there when Billy showed up. It’s my fault he beat the shit out of me and then raped me, too.

And why can’t I be able to tell my truth to my boyfriend and be comfortable and confident that he won’t blame me? That he won’t hit me? I had no idea

“Coincidence?” he repeats shrilly. “I doubt that. I knew you had a thing for him the moment you met him. You’re a goddamn whore, River.”

shit. I was so desperate for love and human connection that I fell for all his bullshit. Even when there were people literally shoving the facts down my throat. And all I did was spit them back in their face.

My shoulders deflate. Why does it ache so bad hearing him in pain? He doesn’t hurt when I hurt. I grit my hair and pull, so frustrated with the effect Ryan has on me. It’s like a riptide—every time I think I’m going to pull myself out and get free, he’s right there to pull me back under. Drowning and suffocating me. It’s so exhausting fighting him. I just want to go back to where we were before I went to Shallow Hill. We were so fucking happy, and god, do I want that back again.

It’s pretty clear Ryan has issues, but maybe if he opens up to me better and we establish healthy coping mechanisms for his anger, we can fix this. That’s what I’ve learned in my studies. Coping mechanisms. Finding what triggers him and learning how to handle it in a healthy way.

Everyone has demons, and I love Ryan enough to try to help him fight those demons.

But I never realized that being familiar doesn’t mean being safe until now.

Ryan has reverted back to his old self. Loving. Sweet. Thoughtful. And my fear of him is tentatively retreating. He hasn’t shown his dark side to me since the day I came home, and it’s to the point where I’m questioning myself—thinking maybe I just overreacted. It’s hard to picture in my head when he’s being so loving now.

want to cry. Here I was, building myself up for a beating, so sure he’d hit me. Instead, I was just being dramatic. If he’s not mad over his favorite mug being broken, then I hadn’t been giving him enough credit.

All the problems we’ve had have been partially my fault. He’s not the only one to blame. Clearly, looking at the eyesore of a mug in front of me proves that.

Ryan’s silent for a moment. “Just make the meatloaf and have it ready by six. Don’t burn it. Don’t be late. Just do something right for once. Can you manage that?” he asks, his voice dark and condescending.

“Why don’t you understand that I’m the only one who would actually love 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.

I don’t understand why the physical abuse and rape weren’t the catalyst. Maybe because I thought the pain was surface level. I can heal. But cheating is deep. It’s a pain that imprints like wolves mating and will last forever. Knowing that I wasn’t good enough to keep him wanting only me. Knowing that every time he leaves my bed, he’s walking into another woman’s legs.

This devil of man built me up just to destroy me. Made me love him and told me the lies of loving me back. Gave me a comfortable life where I could want for nothing. Told me he wanted a future with the rundown girl from Shallow Hill with baggage strapped to her back