I learned long ago not to say a word. Silence is an armour when words can hurt.
But he asked and he seemed sincere and I answered this to “What is wrong? I want to help.”:
“For each door you slam, the muscles of my body spasm and fear expands in my gut like nausea and…”
So rare is a finished sentence for me. So rare is a simple thought brought to its point. I am cut off mid-sentence, the sincerity was never there. A prolonged verbal attack ensues. Words from him, even as they are said, either make no sense, or I can’t remember. Accusations and taunts and accusals are voiced. Lies and truths are hurled together. At first sentences are strung together not to make sense, but to create a whip to use to lash and strike and hurt. But there is no finesse, no control. It becomes just pure hate being vomited upon me.
So rare is a finished sentence for me before I am attacked.
So I run to my room and lock myself in, hungry, without dinner, for the third night in a row, and bury myself under a mound of sheet and pillows and force myself to sleep.
But tonight, tonight is different. Tonight I am made aware that this is on purpose. Tonight I am given certification that this is deliberate. The doors start slamming. The first one. The house rocks. Simple anger perhaps. Then the second, somewhere else in the house. The house rocks again. Then another, another, another. Doors opened and slammed not during passage, but to create the spasms, the fear. Another, another. another.
And so, door-slamming is to be in the rest of my life. And I know my life is to be so much shorter now.