Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 70779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Standing in the doorway was someone I had hoped to never see again—my ex, Carlo.
2
WILLOW
Carlo was a big, burly guy with sandy brown hair and brown eyes. He was powerfully built and had played football back in high school, where I met him. Back then he was a big deal—the quarterback of the winning football team at Cohen College Prep High—go Hornets!
Despite its name, Cohen College Prep or CCP wasn’t great at getting anyone ready for higher education. It was, in fact, a pretty rough place with metal detectors at every door and teachers that were dead behind the eyes from all the violence they’d witnessed. I felt like the luckiest girl alive when Carlo turned his attention to me and offered me his protection.
I wasn’t feeling quite so lucky after we graduated, went to college, and got married. The minute I said, “I do” the abuse started. It was the beginning of a long, miserable chapter in my life that I was still healing from. For a time, I had become convinced it would end in my death as Carlo got more and more violent.
Yes, I became one of those women—I wore long sleeves to hide the bruises on my arms and sunglasses even on cloudy days to disguise my black eyes. I tried to pretend that nothing was wrong—both to myself and to everyone around me—but Pop-pop saw through my deception.
“Willow my love,” he said sorrowfully. “He’s no good for you, this football boy. He’s hurting you all the time!”
“I’m fine, Pop-pop,” I mumbled, trying to smile. Inside I was aching though. At that point the abuse had been going on for years and I was used to it—resigned to it. I was numb because I thought I would never get away.
Lots of people wonder why abused women stay with their abusers—why they don’t leave immediately. Why they leave and go back again and again to the same, awful situation.
The reason is complicated and complex. A messy mixture of love and hate and emotional manipulation and betrayal that sucks you in like a spider’s web and keeps you from ever quite getting free.
At first, Carlo would cry after he hit me. He would beg for forgiveness—bring me flowers and take me on dates to fancy restaurants—ones with low lighting where the makeup hiding my bruises wouldn’t show so much. He swore he loved me and he just lost control.
“You know you make me crazy, babe!” he’d say, giving a rueful little laugh. “I wouldn’t get so worked up if I didn’t love you so much!”
I spent years believing that was true—believing that my husband loved me so much it made him hit me. And that somehow it was all my fault. If only I didn’t provoke him so much, he wouldn’t hurt me. Though usually all it took to provoke him was serving him dinner five minutes late or having another man notice me when we went out, or any of the hundred other little things that made him lose control.
I only began to believe otherwise about halfway into our marriage, but by that time it was too late—Carlo had graduated from the Police Academy and was a full-fledged cop.
Now, I’m not saying “all men” or “all cops” but you can look up the statistics for yourself on how many wives of cops are abused every year and how little they can do about it. The department protects its own and they almost never prosecute a fellow cop, no matter what his spouse says—or how bad she looks at the annual Christmas party for that matter.
I did hear Carlo’s partner, Josh Sampson, try to say something to him once after he came to our house for dinner and saw the state I was in. This was right after Carlo had pushed me down the front steps of our house and I’d ended up with some broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and multiple bruises.
“Jesus, man!” I heard him mutter to my husband when I was in the kitchen, trying to wrestle a roasted chicken out of the oven one-handed, since my left arm was in a sling. “You’ve got to start going easy on your wife! Willow’s looking really banged up!”
“What’s that got to do with me?” Carlo had demanded defensively. “She fell down the steps—that’s all. Landed on the fucking sidewalk—not my fault.”
“You sure you didn’t help her down those steps?” Josh demanded. “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen her looking like shit.”
“She looks like shit because she won’t take care of herself,” Carlo had protested. “Getting fat as a fucking pig, sitting around here all day while I’m out slaving to keep her in style. So what if I gave her a little push? I had to teach her a lesson. Women are too fucking mouthy—gotta keep ‘em in line, right?”