domestic abuse - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
My dad’s a bit of a drinker. It’s how I get my bruises. And, theoretically, my self-induced scars. But, what hurts worse is the insecurity. The internal brokenness that only a person exposed to abuse can experience. It’s like this: those mental scars are a tapering factor in the serenity of domestic life. They cause agony that can only be seen on the inside. The pain that no one else sees because… well, no one else cares.
When the love between them died, the love of power arose in Sebastian. No longer did he hang on her words or surrender himself to her caress. No longer did he cherish her company or speak her name with softness. His new life working night and day to pay the bills only left room for a rage he could not suppress and there was no other target but her. At first there was guilt, an attempt to stop, but soon he gave way, realizing how much he enjoyed beating his fists into her skin. With every hit he felt a cold zing of delight, a buzz he could get no other way.
She lay on the bed, blood seeping beneath her skin, ribs fractured. There would be no doctor, no evidence, and now Niles would be her grovelling lover until he lost his temper all over again. Already she could smell the aroma of fancy cooking, a meal she'd never be able to eat through the pain that cut each breath short.
There were nights I lay in my bed listening to the sound of fighting. My mother would shout, my father would begin laying into her and the screaming would start. She cried, he seethed, and I pushed my face into the long toy snake my three year old body was wrapped around. I would think to myself how when mother left I would leave with her, flee the violence. Then one day she did leave... and I remained right where I was with just a toy to comfort me.
From the outside it was a perfect marriage, yet Kim hid purple ribs and purple "flowers" that blossomed over her legs. On skin as brown as hers it was harder to spot, but it was there and she felt the pain with each breath. Their home was a cage for her body and in her depression her body came to feel like a cage for her soul.
His hand hit and she fell with the force of it. The first slap, seven years ago, had been the worst. She hadn't expected him to be so strong but there was weight and strength enough to stun. Though his hand was empty, it was like being hit with a hunk of meat nonetheless and afterward she would endure his words of hatred, all spilling from a man that professed so much love in his quiet moments of regret.
There was nothing physical about the abuse, but she was shattered nonetheless. Every facet of her personality was was denigrated and shunned. She was less than nothing, not even as loved as an object to be used. Every look that came her way was laced with contempt, annoyance that she should take up house-room and eat. Every bite she was thrown was measured, thin and mean as the nourishment was.
In the years since childbirth Chantelle had gotten fat. With every increasing pound Gregor loathed her more. Once she had been as lithe as a dancer and the envy of other men, now she was nothing but another ugly woman on the cracked and dry streets. The laughter of their youth was dead, the apartment cramped, noisy and dusty. The love had turned to hate and there is no hatred stronger than that formed in such a way, for the bitterness makes it more potent. When his fury rose he lashed out at her, watching her crumple with grim satisfaction, enjoying the sting on his knuckles.
The new freezer was a six foot monolith, a testimony to modern efficiency and a sleek addition to Cindy's home. It slotted neatly into the space designed for it in her bespoke kitchen and hummed along, adding almost imperceptibly to the back ground noise of the room. She loved that it was tall and skinny, looking more like a space station locker than something as mundane as food storage. When Elsa got home with the shopping her admiration was quickly transformed to frustration. Nothing fitted. Everything had to be de-boxed and even then most stuff was simply to wide. Her smile fell, she felt every muscle tense and her hands began to open and close with each quickening breath. She picked up the frozen chicken and threw it onto the tile, cracking one. In seconds she had wound he fingers into Elsa's hair and shoved her face into the stainless steel over and over until her blood splattered the high-end gadgets, walls and floors alike.
In my nights you are a monster and in my days you are the same. There are times I can't tell the nightmare of my reality from the fiction of my nightmares. Sometimes there are clues that I only catch in retrospect: the house is different or you have developed supernatural powers. It doesn't matter at all, you can beat me with the earthly "gifts" you have. With nonchalant ease you crush every ounce of self worth I glean, failing to disguise how delighted you are to deal your favourite blows. How they are like candy to you, irresistible, moorish. You didn't choose me to love or cherish, but to whip and destroy - for power and malice are your drugs of choice. They light you up inside with a sickly glow that shines in those languid eyes.
There are moments my gaze falls on the road that passes our home and follow the cracked and dappled grey to the bend in the road where it twists out of sight. I wonder what might happen if I take a step on it and just keep going. Mama always said there was love out there for everyone and I just assumed you were it; the guy who bought me a beer and said I was “pretty good looking for a short chick.” Is that the highest I rose in your eyes? Because age isn't kind to women and I already feel like a roadkill on a sunny day.
Broken nails and
Bashed in eyes
A battered face
I guess that's what we get
For staying silent