There will never be an acceptable excuse for raising your hand to another human being.

Dear Domestic Violence.  You may not remember last night, but you only have to take one look at me and you will immediately recognise your handy work. All because you were in a drunken stupor.

I heard you bounce off the hallway walls as you stagger to our bedroom. It was only a matter of time before I have to face the harsh reality of your fist connecting with some part of my body. Instantly my sensors were on high alert. It were as if I was a captured animal awaiting my fate.

You whacked me, blow after blow for reasons unknown to myself. Once you physically exhausted yourself, the punches stop. Then you fall into a deep sleep; I survey my injuries until, I hear you snoring. It is only then I decide it is safe to remove myself from the floor.

I slowly start to attend to my wounds. I wipe away the blood, dress the cut on my lip and bandage my arm. I am house bound until these injuries begin to heal. No matter how many times you do this to me; my pride won’t allow me to be seen in public like this.

Before I lay down by your side, I stare at you for what seems like hours – my thoughts swing from questions on how to kill you; to how had I got myself into such a messy, desperate situation? I am cocooned in a cycle of your weak abuse and sorrow.

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