I hear the sound of the shower filling the loft, blending with the silent hums from the fall rain. There’s this intense sadness that comes with fall rain I always enjoy — a pain not even nature can withstand. This is the rain before the snow, and the rain that washes away the leftovers of the Indian summer.  With each drop there’s less vibrant hues, smells, and soon-to-come lifeless evergreen. I lie mummified from his daily vengeful rage that he mistakes for love. The shower’s sound triggers a silent cry, and I know it’s either now or never. If I leave now he won’t be able to stop me. The sound of his razor is reassuring of his distraction. He takes great care of himself, but that’s where the nurturing stops. Why am I not good enough? I sit up on the bed without much success; my legs are severely bruised, and my rib isn’t quite healed from last week’s encounter.

The loft is filled with darkness all around, and the lights from distant skylines reflect the rain on the snow-white walls. After much restraint, I sit up on the bed. I catch glimpses of blood on the white sheets. This is our fourth set this week. I slowly throw the covers back and place my feet on the floor. The marble floor is ice cold, stopping me within my tracks. I inhale, and I start to contemplate whether this is the right time. He really does love me; he just has anger problems. Goose bumps begin to develop around my naked body, and I’m stuck between rolling back in bed or fleeing to the dresser. The sound of his razor comes to a halt, and I can hear the sound of the rain once again. I can see the steam of the shower flowing through the light under the bathroom door. That’s the only light throughout the apartment.

I instantly hop to my feet at the sound of him ripping back the curtains, and I’m limping with great restraint to find clothes. Do I bring bags of clothes or just go with what I have? I know he keeps cash in his pocket, and that’ll be enough to get me out of Venice. I breathe in deeply, and try to keep myself focused on my initial goal. With each inhalation, the room becomes even more chilling, and the rain sounds even louder. I rip open the dresser without much assistance from my eyes. I battle with finding a pair of underwear in my drawer, and after great restraint I aim for just my socks. I slam the drawer. The echo of the drawer sings throughout the whole loft, and I am instantly stone. Inhales. Exhales. The air falls silent, and I can hear the sound of lint floating past the shadows. The soap drops in the shower, and I know now that he is becoming slightly mysterious. His showers are never short, but I never underestimate. I rip open the second drawer in hopes of a shirt. No luck. I repeat with the third, and I find only his clothes. Fuck it. I grab his gym shirt, and I catch a glimpse of my grey sweats peeking out of the dirty laundry. In my Bambi stance, I hop swiftly to the other side of the room. The laundry basket sits next to the bathroom door, so I move as silently as possible. I grab the bottoms, and I struggle sliding into them. I step my right leg into them with no problem, but I struggle with my left. The injury is far too great on my right side to hold my weight. I hop back towards the bed, sit and get the pants up finally.

I sit and decide whether this is really what I want to do. The room is warming up, and my blood pressure rises, while the steam of the shower heats the place. Deeply Inhales. I’m up again, off the bed, and I hear the apartment is more silent than before. The rain has fallen to a slight drizzle. I limp to grab my shoes from beside the kitchen counter. Then it dawns on me, it was always drizzling. The shower has stopped. I trip over the room divider while fleeing for my shoes. My breathing is picking up, and I’m scrambling to slide into my shoes. I grab the socks, but forget to put them on, and at this point it’s no use. I slam my feet into the shoes, and I can hear the sound of his towel leaving the rack. I panic. I lose sight of my focus, and scramble across the house for the keys. Where are his keys? I need his keys. I quickly feel around the kitchen island, then search loudly through the drawers. I no longer can restrain my fear, and I proceed to move loudly throughout the loft. I search the cracks of the couch, as tears are filling up in my eyes, and my lungs cannot take this intense fear. I glimpse his pants he had on before our Monday night episode, and I flee to them. The fear exceeds the pain, and I am off in lightning speed. I dig my hands in his pocket first and feel the keys & wallet instantly. The bathroom door opens instantaneously, and we’re in a deep stare off. Possum. I cannot decide whether to run or prepare for another beating. With confusion on his face, he decides to speak.

“What are you doing? Are you leaving me?” he says. I freeze, and in this moment I have to make a choice. Do I really want to leave him? I cannot take his beatings anymore. But I also know that no one else will love me. He only has anger problems, and if I stop being annoying he won’t be mad at me. This time it was my fault. Who else will I have if I leave Dre? I can’t go back to Compton. I am nothing without this man. I fall to my knees, the exhaustion slowly taking over after such an anxiety attack. I inhale.

“No, I was running to go grab some more bed sheets, but I couldn’t find the keys,” I exhale.