The Last Time it Happened
It’s Complicated: Lit Up & The Writing Cooperative Contest
He was sitting across from her, the question hovering in the air between them so dense she could hardly breathe. Sweat was gathering in her palms, icy cold, and she wondered why his body was not reacting in the same way as hers if they were both there, facing each other, sharing the same table and clinging to the same set of words. The tension emanating from his body was not the same as hers. It was physical, imposing, intimidating. His fate did not depend on the answer. Hers did.
It would not be easy to get out of this alive. But it never had been. Spying her own reflection in the darkness of the window across the room, her vision still blurred by tears and swelling, she was surprised by how easily she could recognize that face. It has been seen so many times that there was no more surprise in understanding it was hers. The cut over her left eyelid was no longer bleeding, but there were still remnants of a deep red stain drifting from it to the soggy scalp where her hand had tried to wipe away the mess. Bruises started to appear on her face, splashing her skin like oversized freckles. Her tongue paced slowly through her mouth, touching her still sensitive teeth and unconsciously counting how many more would now be pointed and jagged. She finally let out the air she was holding in her lungs and decided to face him.
She knew she would not leave the room without answering that question, but the visible impatience in the cracking of his knuckles was making the knot in her throat even tighter. Each crack a punch, each crack a scream, each crack a reminder that she had been hit so many times that her body was already used to put itself back together without cracking. Her eyes met the ring in his left hand, shiny and bright, and ran slowly to hers. Dull and scratched, like herself. Loosely nestled in a hand still bloody and shaky. A reflection of the kind of life she had lived so far and that she would certainly keep on living. Above all, a reminder that she had embraced that life herself, clinging to the hope of each “it will never happen again” and covered every hematoma on her own.
Her gaze went from her left hand to the deep stains covering the wooden table top between them. Her mind took her back to a time where there was no longer makeup, scarf or long sleeve that hid the marks of the relationship she was in. Where the only answer she had to those who dared to care was “It’s complicated”. How could she have explained that despite everything, the pain, the blood, and the shame, she felt she still loved him? What words could she have used to describe the feeling that it was really her fault, that the skirt was indeed too short or that she really should not have raised her voice to him? She leaned back in her chair and laughed silently, shaking her aching head as she finally realized the irony. She was the only one always fearing for her own life and yet she cared about what words to use to keep him from any guilt and judgment from others.
In seconds the recognition that she had laughed at his question hit her and she cringed, covering her face with her forearms and waiting for the violence she knew would come. It always came.
Clearing his throat, visibly distraught at her reaction, the man took a deep breath and brought the conversation back.
“So…”.
Slowly returning to composure — and to reality — , she closed her eyes and inhaled preparing herself to listen again and for the last time to the rest of the question.
“Why did you kill him?”
She slowly opened her eyes, stared at the police officer and finally answered:
“It’s complicated.”
