“You know exactly who I’m talking about, you little bitch,” he spat, his eyes turning blank, like there was nothing behind them.
I struggled not to cry, the pressure on my wrist coupled with the look in his eyes terrifying me. “I promise I don’t,” I cried. “You’re hurting me.”
Sid yanked me to his chest. “Johnny,” he hissed. “Don’t think I didn’t see you following him with your eyes the whole fuckin’ afternoon.”
My eyes bulged. “But Johnny’s your brother, I was never even...” my protests were cut short with a backhand to the face. The impact, plus the pain caused me to fall to the floor. I cradled my belly with one hand while pressing my palm against my stinging cheek with the other. I stared at him in horror. I had never known violence before. My parents might have been pieces of shit, but they never hurt me. Not with their fists anyway. Now the boy I loved, thought loved me, was responsible for not only the stinging pain in my cheek, but the small crack in my heart.
Sid’s face suddenly changed. He gazed down at me in horror, looking at his hand like it didn’t belong to him. He knelt beside me and I flinched. “Button, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. Jesus,” he muttered in despair. “Is the baby okay?” he asked urgently, gently pulling me to my feet, pressing lightly on my belly with both hands.
And that’s what it was like; he would turn, without warning. Over silly things, sometimes things he imagined, like me laughing at one of his friend’s jokes too hard. Or putting capers in a meal when he hated them. Using the wrong fabric softener. It could be anything. Sometimes it was only words. Yelling, screaming, horrible, vile insults. Other times it was his fists. He was careful to only hit my face, and when he marked it he wouldn’t let me leave the house until the evidence was gone. Slowly, with poisonous words and physical abuse, he battered me into a shell. I had been a vulnerable teenager, desperate for a family, for love. He capitalized on that and turned me into a shell of whatever I had been before. I have no idea how I didn’t lose Lexie; he seemed to avoid hitting my torso, even in his rage. That gave me stupid teenage hope, hope that he still loved me. Might stop hurting me. Or that he’d never hurt our daughter. That was the only thought I clung to. Leaving was not an option for me. I had nothing. No one. No family, no money and no friends thanks to Sid. So I just had to pray that it was temporary. Had to send all my love to the only thing that got me through that horrible time, the little girl in my belly.
Then one night, his rage went beyond anything I had ever seen. I can’t even remember what set him off, but his eyes turned black and he came at me. He didn’t stop after one punch, one slap, like normal. There was no desperate pleas for forgiveness or promises. Only more violence. Only more pain. I was terrified not for my life, but for my baby’s. I loved her with all of my heart, all of my soul. She was all I had and I couldn’t lose her. That’s where my desperate thoughts were on, not the pain, then terror that coursed through me as darkness claimed me.
“Said she fell down the stairs.” A voice penetrated my foggy mind. “She’s almost nine months,” the voice continued in disgust. “How someone could do that to a kid, a pregnant kid no less—” It petered off.
I quickly opened my eyes. Two people were standing by my bed, glancing at a chart and peering down at me. Everything hurt. I felt like I had been hit by a truck. I struggled to remember what got me here, where I was. My thoughts moved to my belly and fear replaced everything. My belly, the thing that had kept me going for the last four months, the thing I loved more than anything was gone. I was empty. I knew it. Hatred, hotter that I’d ever felt, burned through my veins…hatred for Sid. My eyes opened properly this time and I clutched the hand of a surprised doctor.
“My baby,” I croaked in despair. “Where is she?”
The woman’s hand covered mine, her face soft. “Your baby is in the NICU. She needs some special attention, but she’s going to be fine.” She paused. “You just focus on getting yourself better.” Her voice sounded like a dismissal but I wouldn’t let go.
“My husband?” I continued, hating the fact I was tied to him through marriage. “Does he know? Does he know she’s okay?” I asked with desperation.
The doctor jolted slightly and gave me a searching look. “No, we were on our way to inform him of you and your daughter’s condition now.” Her voice had turned hard, and I knew she knew he did this.
“Don’t,” I pleaded. “Don’t tell him she’s alive.”