abusive - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
It was valentines day, the day he hated most in the world, the day when others expected him to be romantic. I told him I loved him, over and over, anything to break through the mask, to see the man beneath. I did. I did break through. But the boy he was had died long ago and in his place was a monster. And so he did what monsters do. It took so long, after what he did, to convince the doctors I was sane, and even then they don't, do they? Not really.
It wasn't that she didn't like people. She just didn't like love. Any association with the emotion had been a bad one, and her body just learned to reject it, like a foreign substance. The way her step father had lifted his fist against her mother made her really wonder - why do humans fall in love if this is the consequence? The way her mother screamed as his white knuckles gripped her throat or his snickering laugher as he kicked away at her. It was just wrong.
What gave you the right to touch me?
Pure, imperfect me
Only a child
Was it because you fed, clothed and schooled me?
Was my body the price charged, so I could be educated?
but not free
You deny me of my dignity, stole my rights
You took my voice
You left me with no choice
You raped and abused me….repeatedly
Forced, against my will
What did you call it? Oh yes!
You said you loved and adored me
That was the disguise you used to shelter and cover my nakedness
It was a game or so you said, a test
A secret we shared…quietly…
It was your way of showing how much you cared for me
What happened to the trust and confidence I invested in thee?
My stepfather, my friend
Or so I thought, way back then
The trauma of your abuse
Is never gone from my conscience
Its filthy stain left its residue on my soul
A horrible stench
I prayed “dear God, let me forgive and forget”
but it seemed like… never
Written by: Charmaine Wallace
A smouldering stare held onto the girl that had frozen in front of him. He could feel his thoughts all gnarl together as the temptation to hurt her poisoned his bloodstream. An immaculate hunger twisting his insides as he lurched forward, pouncing at the girl with the luminous turquoise eyes. She had flouted him, the rules had been fragmented and now her chaste soul was going to pay. He could feel her squirm, her delicate frame pinned beneath his body as his actions quickened. Soon her hot blood became a dry abyss, he scooped her limp and decrepit body and trapped her beneath the solid terrain. He didn't desire her death... but the voices thought it was inevitable
His mama used to tell him not to hit. The school councillor said it was abusive. But they wasn't around no more. Now if his girl pissed him off she got what was comin' to her. He'd be careful not to leave the bruises where they would show the next day. And he'd be careful to apologize 'nough in the morning so she wouldn't leave or go telling her friends. Smacking her around wasn't just about loosing his temper, it was a stress relief to him. Some folks played squash, he played smash, what's the difference?
He had that hopeful look in his eye. He had it every time he got the notion to better himself in some way. Sometimes it was more education, another time it would be a business plan, occasionally he planned to get fit. She'd always smile while he told her the plan and appear to support him, then over the coming week she'd insert comments to deflate him and make him feel worthless and insecure. Then she'd come to the rescue and tell him she loved him just the way he was. And she did. She loved him being an overweight failure with low self-esteem, that way he'd never leave her.
He knew when he saw her eyes brimming with tears that he should relent, that a decent person would show forgiveness. But he felt a frisson of excitement that transcended his better nature and pushed him on. Only when she was openly weeping and broken would he stop. He'd feel guilty of course, but that never stopped him before and it wouldn't stop him this time. He enjoyed abusing her too much.
I've never been afraid of 'monsters' per-say. I do believe they exist, I just don't think they are furry and live under my bed and in my closet. You see, I knew a monster once. In fact, I loved him. He played baseball with me, and he spoiled me with lots of gifts. He had deep brown eyes, and a smile nearly identical to my own. I thanked God for my very own monster, every night. My monster didn't have sharp talons. The only thing sharp about him was the knife that made this gash. My monster wasn't green or purple. He didn't even like purple; That's why he made me have all of the purple on my arms. My monster didn't come out and scare me after I had fallen asleep. No, my monster only scared me when he came home. My monster gave me bad dreams too though, so I guess there is that. But I didn't make my monster leave, like the case with normal childhood monsters. No, my monster made me leave. My monster didn't want me anymore, so he made me go...
It was the loud bang that left a hole in the wall, the thump of the flying vase, and the crash of the figure coming in contact with the floor. It was the unapologetic 'I'm sorry', the oh so loving laughter, and the slur of a drunken fool. These were the sounds made by the man that called himself my father. The monster that was okay with laying his hand on the one that he swore he loved. The monster that damaged her forever. The monster that created the sounds forever replaying in the back of my mind. The monster was never under my bed, because he was too afraid to be in the house of that man. The only monster I needed to fear, was the one waking me up in the morning, not the one coming out after I was asleep
he squeezed her shoulders and started screaming at her then he slapped her and he shoved the table destroying the glass vase and the glass shuttered everywhere he then pulled her down to the floor... her back sticking on the glass pieces then beating her in a violent way and she could do nothing but burst in tears not even ask him to stop knowing that this makes him more angry ... feeling his shoe going through her stomach but she can't take the pain anymore crying "stoooop pleeease , pleeease just stop" ..these wounds and broken bones might cure but one thing won't for sure the scars that are on her heart the guy that she trusted did this too her she can't even believe it
Slowly, Johnson chugged the beer to it's very last drop. He went for another bottle. His wife, Laura, was leaving soon. He was an alcoholic and he abused her. Laura grabbed her suitcases and opened the door.
"Where are you going?" he slurred, even though he was fully aware of where she was going. "That's none of your business," she snapped. Johnson was fully taken aback by her outburst. Laura had a sudden burst of confidence when she was leaving.
Laura gave him a look of pity and finally left. Out of Johnson's life. Johnson threw the bottle on the ground and erupted in sobs.
He was horrible. "It's...for...the better," he forced out. And with that, he opened another can of beer.
It was as simple for Diana to make flame with the cigarette lighter as it was for her mother to cuss her out. Breaking her mind had been such a joy for the old hag who had been bullied her whole life too. Finally she'd had someone weaker to be her victim. Of course she never saw it that way, she was “helping” her daughter by calling her “fat” and “lazy.” She raised the roof every time Diana brought home more failing grades before lighting up her fags and playing her Bob Dylan so loud the walls vibrated. It was time to “take care” of all that. Some ash would be so much more manageable than the walls and everything in them. After taking care to spill the ethanol in a natural spill pattern she lit a piece of fabric and dropped it, running hard as her back became scorched by a wall of heat. Her hair was burning but she was out, she rolled in he dewy grass. Mother would be in bed, drunk. It wasn't at all hard to cry for the cops; she had, after all, lost a lot of hair.
Laurel sat flicking through her texts from her new profile on the dating website she just joined. They took your BMI and if you didn't check off as accepting a whole list of kinky stuff you wouldn't get any responses, not that she cared, the stranger the better. The kids were crying again, wanting more food and the house was a mess. They should have tidied up, stupid kids. With no witnesses about she could do as she pleased. Picking them up by their waists like they were dolls she just put them in their cribs and let them scream it out. By the time the sitter arrived they'd be asleep.
A searing shot of pain ran up the young woman's body, a scream escaping her pale lips as the devastating sounds bounced off the living room's walls. A man sat opposite the weeping woman, an iron fire poker by his side. His hands were firmly clasped under his chin, a gleeful grin stretched across his face. He was handsome, yes, but his charm had long gone. His hair was long and unruly and dark circles outlined his blood shot eyes. His skin was paler than it once was, as he hadn't been outside for quite some time, but the London weather probably wouldn't help recover the loss.
The man didn't seemed at all bothered by the screams that came from his victim. If anything, he seemed amused by her pain. His stony eyes stared down at the twitching body before him as if he were inspecting a freshly plucked turkey, all ready to go into oven. The flames that licked up the sides of the fireplace reflected off the beads of sweat that had settled on the woman's forehead.
Her agony was his entertainment.
After a time, her screams had subsided and her tormentor had grown bored with her silence. Sending a single kick to her stomach, the man stood and left, but not without giving one last lingering glance to the woman he claimed to love.