Hurt

I was four years old when I woke up to the sound of my parents fighting in bed. We all slept in the same bed then, and I remember them getting up to continue the argument. I don't remember any of the argument, just the part where my father started hitting my mother. That part is still vivid. He threw her against the window, stuff smashing all over. As much as that part was vivid in my mind, the even clearer part was the screams of my mother. Her cries still haunt me to this day. I also remember myself standing there, being afraid, crying, and unable to move. I was so frozen with fear that I didn't move until my mother grabbed me and ran out of the house. I remember the neighbors standing there looking at us when she hurried me out of the yard.

Years later, I'm an adult. I sit on the couch of my home. My wife sits next to me, and she verbally berates me. She calls me all manner of awful names as she cries. In between her insults, she asks me several questions. I don't want to say anything wrong, so I say that I'm sorry. She wants answers. She cries and says that I'm hurting her, and she continues to assault me verbally. I remember curling up into a ball, taking the fetal position, and I wish I could melt into the couch. I prayed that she would stop, and at that moment, I was that little kid again. I was paralyzed by fear. If only I were a better husband, I thought she wouldn't have to treat me like that. If only I had felt the right thing and could love her more, then I wouldn't have to say how I felt, and I wouldn't have to suffer her wrath.

I said the wrong thing; I told her I didn't feel any romantic love toward her or was not attracted to her. It was time to take my verbal beatdown like a man. I'm sorry; I should have been better.