Wounded Victim

‘Listen Tamzin…’ I paid attention. His teeth were bared, and he leaned his upper body into my personal space. I sat near the corner of the bed, my back already against the wall.

He was angry, hate was pulsing through every word that he spat my way. He’d never, never called me by full-name in over 24 years. I was afraid, I thought I would die, my heart palpitations were increasing, I was stressed, I don't even remember if I was breathing. I feared for my life as he told me what he wanted from me. I was to stop treating him like a baby, and he wanted R1000 per month. That is all that stood out. He had a love-hate relationship with money, and he refused to carry a wallet or even touch money, I used to leave money for him by his computer that he’d neglect for so long I’d have to dust it. His body language spoke decibels, and that’s what I remember the most. I put my head in my hands, afraid that he would do something irrational (like the night he had the ‘seizure’) I didn’t want to see what his 140kg frame was capable of. I was cornered. I could go nowhere if I tried to get away. I thought of the many women who are beaten by their husbands and boyfriends I thought ‘this is where it begins, this is how it feels’. Powerless and alone.

My actions made him angrier, I looked up at him, he said ‘Don’t give me that wounded victim look!’ It was time to leave. I wanted to leave that night, but I knew the logistics were tricky, I wanted to minimize the trauma to my son, and I needed to take my data and a few other essentials that I need for business.

I would have to leave the next morning.

*Photo by Joana Abreu on Unsplash