Soft and peaceful. The river wind rolls through the south stairwell window and cools the bed sheets after a warm day. I close my eyes and wait, then ...
Grabbed by my ankles. Driven against the opposite wall. Shouts. Threats. Slammed again. I know who is doing this but pretend ignorance. Say nothing. Not now. Silence, then hauled upside down and thrown back into bed. Door slammed. More silence.
Then again. And again. I listen. No sound. Then …
Ankles seized again. Shouts. Deep voice. My back and head hit the wall. Threats. Thrown back into bed. More threats.
Later, grasped by my arms and pulled. Jerked up, then twisted so I face the wall. Temples pounded with the heel of his hands as if my head were a timpani.
No need to think. I know. Loud, dark, threatening - intrusive thrusts as brutal as any I have ever felt. And I will not forget who did it.
Slamming. Collision of hand against temple again and again. Maybe once. Maybe twice. Maybe more. Night after night. In the bedroom. My bedroom.
Despite psychiatrists, psychologists, priests. Despite medications and confessions. Despite hospitals and rooms with or without furniture, where they tell me what they want to hear so they can turn me into a clinical diagnosis. I know they were not dreams. Not psychotic episodes. I know who did it. I know. And I know he knows.
Before, during and after they try to kill me, I know.
And I still know.
I will wait, then …
(c) Thomas Elson