Essay # 1 Draft

Kelly Quinn
Essay # 1, rough draft
Creative non-fiction

Scars, this is a word that can possibly be looked back upon in remembrance of a silly activity or mindless act, but in most cases scars are reminders of pain. Falling off of your bike, cutting yourself with a knife, a surgery, or a car accident, these are all incidents who’s result is usually the gaining of a scar. They come in all shapes and sizes, for instance the bruise on my leg is about the size of a grape fruit, and the cut on my neck is no longer than an inch long. We all get them different ways, doesn’t really matter how, when, or why we get them; it’s the impact they have on us. One type of scar in particular that I fear the most is the emotional scar. No one can see it, not even you, it can fade just like an actual scar, sometimes medicine is needed to help reduce its appearance, but it never really goes away. It sits there inside of you like a cancer that is waiting to show its ugly head at any moment; some days you can almost forget about it and others it is as though a hand grenade has just gone off inside of you but no one else can see. These scars go deeper than any physical scar, the do not always scab, or change colors as they heal; because truthfully some are just as fresh in your mind 20 years later than they were the day they happened…


I can still feel the breeze blow past my head and the sound of all the particles in the wood breaking less than an inch away from my head. I still get chills when I can feel his cold fingers on the back of my neck, and the rug scraping my knees as I slid down the stairs. My heart just stops and I can’t breathe every now and then, just like that day. It happened six years ago, towards the end of winter, I remember because the walk to Courtney’s was so cold. Six years ago and I feel like it was yesterday, six years ago and the sounds, smells, and pain are no less apparent than they were that day. That day changed me, weakened me, and stole a piece of me that I fear I will never get back. That day was the day that I was belittled to a mere nothing in my ex-boyfriends eyes.
This was the first time he ever laid a hand on me in that manor, but it was far from the first time he hurt me. He was the guy that everyone loved and never thought he was capable of the things I said he did. Truthfully I do not even think my friends believed me. He was good. He knew what to say, how to act, the right way to smile; it is frightening to think about the power that this boy had over everyone, especially me. I gave up the love of my life for this guy, walked right out of his life, into the jaws of a great white shark. A beautiful creature, who is so graceful and smart, but when it’s hungry, strikes with a force that no matter the strength of the individual, there is no escaping, it will devour you alive.


I was sixteen years old at this point; we had been dating since I was 15. We were either at each other’s throats or in the sack making up. Forgive me for not using the term making love when I speak of this guy, for there was no love involved in this relationship. Things went well in the beginning and then they got destructive. Lying, fighting over everything, cheating, lying, making up poems and passing them around school, lying, turning friends against me, lying, lying, and did I mention lying. It was one thing right after another, something that a 16 year old girl who is in high school is just not able to handle. I was no saint, I made mistakes too, but I never made him feel like nothing, I never hurt him like he hurt me. I guess my views are one sided, but when someone does what he did, and as a sixteen year old girl you blame yourself; he deserves no sympathy.


“We need to talk about this, why are you doing this to me?!”
This is how our conversation on the phone started that day. It was a back and forth battle of who can yell the loudest the get their point across. I won, he caved.
“Fine, just come over and we will talk about it, but you can’t stay long.”
I liked winning; I would get a feeling of satisfaction because for once he gave in to me. So I called the Alpha Taxi, my favorite place, got a cab and headed over there. It was only about a 15 minute drive, but that day took longer, there was traffic. We stopped in front of the house, 5 Yuro Drive, a tan and brown residence nothing special about it, I paid the guy and made my way to the front door. Pushed the door bell twice, no answer, knocked twice, no answer, as I went to knock again (for I had just spend 15 dollars taking a cab all the way over here I was not going to be a happy camper if we did not talk) he opened the door. I could tell real quick that he was angry, he used to get a wrinkle in-between his eyes when he was about to yell, and the moment I saw his face it was already there.


“What are you doing here!?”
I couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of his mouth, did he not just say I could come over to talk, was I hallucinating? He was on the phone with his best friend Jimmy complaining that I had just showed up with no invite, going on and on about how I was crazy. (Looking back, I was a little out of my mind at this age, but who could blame me, a 40 year old woman would be acting the same way being in a relationship like I was in) This set me off; I was in the house at this point hunched over in a little ball, crying so hard that I couldn’t breathe. I was near the end of the couch on the floor by the front door; I had fallen over from crying. Right here I should up gotten up and left, but at the time I couldn’t. He was standing over me yelling, very loud to, but I couldn’t hear him, everything sounded like I was underwater. I know he was switching back and forth from yelling at me and then yelling at Jimmy. He pushed me over so that I was laying on the ground now; he kept nudging me like you would to provoke a dog to bite. He told me to leave over and over again, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe; it felt like I was having an asthma attack; so I just laid there and cried. I did not speak to him, or yell; I at the point literally just curled up and cried.


How could I do this, this wasn’t me. Out of all of my friends I was the strongest, the leader of the group. The advice giver on everything, the big sister, the captain of the soccer team, the girl who always took care of herself. When I look back on this I am just angry for how weak I was.
I finally came to from my state and realized he was gone. I took a few moments and a couple of deep breaths and headed up stairs, he was still on the phone.
“Jimmy I do not want to be like my cousin, I don’t want to do this man, but I am going crazy!”
I heard him but I couldn’t believe he meant what he said, he would never hit me. I knocked on the door and asked him to come out about 3 times, my world changed when he opened that door. His eyes were black and filled with hatred. He grabbed both of my arms and pinned me and against the wall and started screaming at me going on and on about what an awful person I am. Next he took a few steps back into his bathroom which was directly behind him. At this point I began to cry again, uncontrollably, this pissed him off. Then he uttered under his breath, “Don’t make me do this.”

I barley heard him over my sobs, but I saw him stand up and then fly at me. His fist missed my face by a quarter of an inch and flew right through the wall, leaving an enormous hole and dent. (Which he later showed off to his friends bragging how strong he was, but left out the part that it was meant for my head) I froze, stopped breathing, and just stared at him for what seemed to be forever, and then collapsed again. This time I was near the stairs and before I attempted to move, his cold lifeless fingers were on the back of my neck, he was crying. His grip got tighter as I stood up, he pushed me back down. I yelled at him to let me go, but every time I spoke he would squeeze harder. Then he pushed me. I rolled down the stairs, my knees were already red from being pushed on the carpet, my arms had bruises on them from him grabbing me so hard, and now after hitting my head on the railing I lay flat on the floor at the bottom of those twelve stairs, looking up at a person that I once upon a time thought I loved. I stared into his eyes until he went back into his room and dialed someone’s number. It took me a few minutes to get up; I grabbed my purse and jacket, walked out of his house and walked down the street to Courtney’s . I was like a zombie in a trance. It wasn’t true, I was dreaming, this did not just happen. My knees buckled when I entered her room, I sobbed for three hours, went home and went to bed. The next day at school, he told me I was crazy and it never happened. I only told my closest friends, because I knew him and no one would have believed me.


This scar it runs deep, there is no escaping it. I can put it out of my mind for months at a time, but it never goes away. When a man hits you, a piece of yourself dies, and you can never get that back, especially a man who was supposed to love you. A man who had no problem putting your troubles aside so he could get laid, who would turn around the next day and act like you never existed. A man who put his hands on me with full intention to hurt and inflict pain. As I said earlier, I was no angel I played my part in our fights, but never once did I do anything that deserved what I got. Six years later, and this wound is wide open.