Story: He Loves Me… Really

Published: 5/8/08

Summary: She knew what he was doing was wrong, She knew she needed to escape. So why couldn't she?

Rating: T

Beta: 'Chelle

Hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. The funny thing about this story, really, is the fact that I'm not really a huge fan of SVU. It was my Beta 'Chelle who told me to put it in this category, so if you like it, you have her to thank. Enjoy the story.

-NnH

Sometimes I wonder why I do it, I think to myself as I apply yet another layer of coverup to my rapidly darkening bruises.

I wonder why I don't just leave.

He's hardly ever happy, unless he's drunk of course, which is all the time now. When he gets drunk, he gets mean. He hits me, beats me, constantly. It never ends. No matter how hard I try I'm useless in his eyes. I try so hard to be helpful, just to do one thing right. Every day I tell myself that it's not his fault, that he would love me if I tried just a bit harder, was just a bit better. But no matter how much I do, how hard I try, it's never enough.

There's going to be company tonight. I haven't cleaned yet. I haven't even begun preparing. There's no food in the house, and so it's my job to get the supplies from the store.

Which means going to the supermarket.

Which means going outside.

Which means hoping to god that no one notices the fresh bruises still only partially covered up by my makeup. They'll only buy my "I walked into a wall" excuse so many times.

I examine my face in the mirror one last time, giving up on my face and arms. It's not like they are going to get any better anyways. I throw on a dark sweater, enough to cover the bruises on my collarbone, and arms. It also hides my rapidly thinning frame, proof of my "loving" husband's alcohol addiction, which is a plus.

He was so kind and sweet when we met, I think, as I climb into my car. I nearly collapse as I get in, my ribs screaming in pain. I think he may have hit me harder than I originally thought, because it was getting harder and harder to breath with each movement. When I met him, he swept me off my feet. He was my knight in shining armor, my love, my everything. He was wonderful, he was helpful, and he was perfect.

Why couldn't I see what he was?

It was fine when we married for a while. Then he started drinking. It was only a bit at first, a beer or two a night, and his work started going later and later. I tried to ignore it at first, tried to tell myself that everything was normal, but it got worse and worse. He began having me do more and more around the house, yelling and screaming if it wasn't done to perfection.

Why didn't I see the signs?

The first time he hit me, I honestly wasn't that surprised. Oh, I acted surprised, and for a while I even fooled myself into thinking I didn't know it was coming. That was a lie. I had seen it coming, seen him getting more and more violent, angrier. I block out things I don't want to acknowledge. A skill I learned from my mother. If you pretend hard enough, then what you think is true, it can be true. The first time he held me in his arms immediately afterwards, just as he did every time he went too far after that.

He apologized, and told me it would never happen again. I believed him, just as I did every time he went too far after that. But I won't do it anymore. I can't do it anymore. I'm going to walk out this time. I'm not going to go back. After this dinner party, I will be gone, and he won't ever be able to find me.

Why does it sound like I'm lying to myself?

I go through the night perfectly. I smile and nod in all the right places, I ask to take our guests coats. I laugh where appropriate, serve all the right things, and am constantly aware of what's going on. The night goes off without a hitch. I am the perfect hostess, the perfect wife, and I am constantly turning over in my mind how to escape. Every step I take, every movement I make, sends a sharp flaring pain through my ribs and ankle, but I am also the perfect actress, and so no one will ever know. I'm almost at my limit though. I'm not sure how much more I can take before I brake.

Why do I keep going?

He takes me aside after the dinner, after everyone had left. I knew he would see my pain. I knew it. Now it was going to be worse. I fight the urge to run as he towers above me, advancing quickly, far quicker than I could ever move, especially in this state. I look down, making sure not to meet his eyes, knowing that it's forbidden. He stops, and I flinch, tensing, waiting for the expected blows to come raining down on my already damaged body, but they never come. Instead I feel his strong arms encircle me, and just like that first time, so many years ago, he pulls me just tight enough to keep from hurting me. He tells me that it was an accident, tells me that it will never happen again. He tells me how sorry he is, and how he never wanted to hurt me.

Why do I believe him?

My mind is screaming at me not to believe him, to run, but I look up at him, just a glance at the start, and he catches my gaze. All the sudden I'm crying trying to hold back the tears. He tells me it's ok to cry, tells me again how sorry he is, waiting for me to accept his apology.

"You won't hurt me again? You promise?" it will never change.

"Promise" I will never escape.

But for a little while, it's ok. As long as he's holding me, it's ok. He's warm, and comforting, and just before I fall asleep in his arms I think:

I know why I don't leave

Because no matter what, in my mind, these few seconds, where he tells me just enough to keep me from leaving, where his only objective is to keep me with him, trapped, are completely worth all the pain and heartache he instills upon me during the rest of the year. Just those three words, he whispers as I drift off to sleep, are worth everything.

"I love you."

End