His violence should have pushed me away from him, and consciously it did. But in some more primitive way it only drew me closer. As he raged, out of control, even as he beat me, I never lost touch with him. It was the vortex of his pathos, his insanity, his hurt that overwhelmed me, filling me, more than the physical pain, with black despair, with torpor. I couldn’t wait for the ritual to end so that I could take to my bed, pull the covers up over me, and sleep.
