So here’s how it went down. I got a text from him around 6 last night, asking if he could come get some clothes. Because he’s such a dumbass, that when he had come Sunday morning to get stuff, he didn’t take any clothes with him. I told him yes, and then felt sick to my stomach that I had to let him in the house again.
He knocks, I let him in. He looks at me like I’m supposed to say something. I say nothing. He asks, “What are you still mad or something??”. I ask, “What do you want me to say?”. He starts carting drawers from his dresser out the door. He wants to know if I’ll “at least” open the door for him, so he “can be out of my hair” (which sounds like another total martyr statement to me). He asks if I had a nice afternoon with my son, I reply yes, that I did, all the while wondering why he would even ask. Another trip out the door, and he says to me, “Aren’t you glad your son wasn’t around to see any of it?!?”. Yes, I was very glad he wasn’t around to see any of it. Back in the door, he asks if the rent on the storage shed is due on the same day every month, and I bite my tongue from saying, “Yes, dumbass, responsible adults figure that shit out, not to mention the fact I have told you numerous times!!”. I simply tell him yes, and he volunteers the information that he paid it yesterday morning. I say I thought he hadn’t gotten paid. He asks what I said, claims he didn’t hear me, and I tell him it doesn’t matter anyway. This irritates him. Out the door, and he tells me that he guesses I am right, and that it doesn’t matter. In again, and one last thing to take out the door, he stops in the kitchen and asks if it’s okay if he leaves the bed awhile longer. I say yes, and I tell him this wasn’t how I wanted things to turn out. He says, “Well, that’s what happens when you beat the shit out of me.” What the fuck?? I tell him the only reason I hit him, was because I was tired of him hitting me, and after him cutting my face open earlier in the evening I wasn’t going to take it anymore. He says he was only hitting my hat, that he wasn’t hitting my face. I ask if he was only hitting my hat, how is it I have a fat lip? He then proceeds to tell me that I gave him a scratch on his arm, and his hand swelled up a little bit. I tell him that probably happened when I was trying to get his fucking hands off my throat because he was choking the shit out of me. He tells me that he only choked me because I wouldn’t stop hitting him. I told him I have a right to defend myself. He says the problem always is that I never know when to shut the fuck up. He says, just like now, you don’t know when to stop fucking talking, and he walks out the door.
In that instant I know. I know I will never take him back. I will never take him back, because next time, he might not take his hands off my throat. Next time, he might just kill me. You see, he has no remorse. No remorse whatsoever. He thinks I am at fault. He believes I brought everything on myself. He believes I deserved it. Fuck him. I know he’s wrong.