The first time he punched me, there was no warning.
For a split second, I didn't understand what had happened. As we walked back into our flat, he was behind me, so I hadn't seen the fist that came flying at the side of my head. I cannoned forward, hitting the wall hard with my shoulder and sliding down as my legs curled beneath me. My head dropped forward, my face hidden beneath my long auburn hair. I froze, pretending to be unconscious so he wouldn't hit me again.
I still remember what I was wearing: a loose cream jumper and fitted gray skirt with a side vent, both bought by him. The skirt tore as I fell, and I remember thinking I would have to mend it. There was a sharp pain in my shoulder and a dull ache above my left ear. I wanted to lie down, to be cushioned by the soft, dark carpet. In the pause that followed, I could hear us both breathing — mine, ragged and fast; his, calm and regular.
We had been visiting one of my oldest friends — the only time this happened while we were together. By then I had been with Franc for about eight months, and I had already learned that under his rules, my friends were off-limits. Another rule was that if he gave me what I came to know as "The Look," I would shut up and do as I was told. But I hadn't yet learned how far he would go. I wasn't yet afraid.
He wanted to leave early and I didn't, so I smiled and prevaricated and thought he wouldn't begrudge me this bit of fun, even though I knew he could be a bit "difficult" when he didn't get his own way.
I remember feeling utter disbelief as I lay folded against that white wall. Worse still, this wasn't my first relationship with an abusive man, but my second. The realization that I was a repeat offender brought with it a hot rush of shame. I had destroyed my trust in myself and in my own judgment, and for a second time.
The odd thing was that I didn't immediately hate him. I felt shocked, but perhaps not as shocked as someone who hadn't experienced this kind of thing before. Instead, I continued to feel the same overwhelming love for him that I'd felt during our first few weeks together, when we laughed a lot and he swept me off my feet, charmed me, supported me, treated me with kindness and respect and, I believed, loved me. I still believed that. But by the time he landed that punch to the side of my head, I had, in fact, been sweetly coerced into resigning my free will. Now I knew what would happen if I tried to take it back.
