This post includes a violent incident; please take care while reading
Who knew talking to a stranger would cost me my teeth.
I was surprised when Al told me to get dressed — we were going out. It was unusual for him to take me anywhere in public, but I was excited to get out of the house for a bit. Raising two toddlers was exhausting, and I needed to breathe for a change.
We went to a local bar he frequented. We sat at the counter, ordered drinks, made small talk, watched one of the many TVs. It was… pleasant. An unusual break from the arguing and the demands. When he finished his second drink, he told me to wrap it up — we were leaving — and headed to the restroom.
The man next to me tried to start a conversation. I was polite but brief. If I got caught talking to another man, there would be hell to pay. And of course, fate being what it was, Al saw us talking as he came back. My heart dropped to my feet. My stomach twisted. He said, “Let’s go,” and ushered me out the door.
He said nothing on the walk to the car. Nothing on the drive home. Silence — the kind that vibrates with danger. I stayed quiet. Excuses only made him angrier, and I’d learned to avoid that at all costs.
When we got home, he left to bring the sitter back. I checked on the kids — both sound asleep — then nervously picked up the house and waited. When he returned, he was still silent. Not a word. It was unlike him; he usually exploded over the smallest things. This quiet was worse.
We were both in the kitchen when he finally broke it. He asked me some silly question about the cast iron pan hanging on the wall. Confused, I turned and said, “What?”
He took the pan off the hook and swung it with all his strength into my face, telling me no one was ever going to look at me again.
I heard my teeth break. Felt the blood running down my chin. I just stood there, stunned. What the hell? Why? It wasn’t my fault the man spoke to me. Al just laughed and went to bed.
I was used to being beaten by him — the pain had stopped registering years ago — but my teeth. I spit out the fragments into my hand and cleaned myself up with a kitchen towel. I was afraid to look in a mirror. I walked around in disbelief, numb and shaking. He’d told me I was ugly so many times I’d started to believe it, but now? Now I really was.
After making sure he was asleep, I got an ice pack and a blanket and settled onto the couch. My face throbbed, but I stayed awake, watching, waiting. Something told me he wasn’t done.
In the morning, he came straight to me and laughed — a deep, ominous laugh — and told me I was now, indeed, ugly. I refused to let him see me cry. I just stared at him as he listed all the ways I looked awful and how I’d never leave the house again. He was right: I wasn’t going anywhere looking like that. I was a prisoner in my own home, and the thought gutted me.
When the kids woke up, my son looked at me and said I looked like a scary monster.
Eventually, I forced myself into the bathroom. I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. My face was a swollen, bruised mess. My smile — if you could call it that — was a jagged line of missing teeth. What kind of monster does that to another human being?
I knew I had to leave before something worse happened, but I was terrified. He’d told me more than once that if I ever tried, he’d kill me, cut me into pieces, and mail them to my parents. And he was unbalanced enough to do it.
Talking to a stranger didn’t cost me my teeth — Al did. And that was the moment I finally understood the truth: the danger wasn’t outside the house. It was living in it.
Funny thing is, he thought breaking my teeth would keep me quiet — but it only sharpened my voice,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 