The other day I pulled out an old file from one of my saved archive CDs. I opened the file and found several old pieces of works I had written but never tried publishing. The CD was an old Journal from a very hard time in my life. I was in my early twenties at the time; newly divorced and in counseling for domestic violence. I read a particular piece called Little Suzie.
It was a story about a young woman who had at somehow ceased to exist. She woke up one day and found herself standing outside her body, her life, as an observer looking in. And for the first time she saw what her life had become.
Here is an excerpt from that story,
Little Suzie didn’t move. I could see the bruise darken on her cheek. Tears streak down her face and she wonders what happened. Upstairs she could hear him and Tammy on her bed. It wasn’t his bed. She’d bought it with her own money, before they got married. Everything in her house was hers, she paid for it. After all she was the only one with a job.
My cheek stings. The bruise. What happened. Little Suzie came home and found him with Tammy. Not that she cared. After all, it kept him off her. Really Tammy did her a favor. They had been friends for a long time, until he came between them. But it’s Suzie’s fault, she let Tammy move in. Maybe she knew what would happen, what she wanted to happen. Keeps him off her.
My head is spinning. I feel sick again. Little Suzie is holding her stomach. She makes her way to the bathroom and sticks her finger down her throat. When it’s done she feels better. Always better after. Head still hurts though. What happened?
I remember. I touch my cheek, and flinch. I see Little Suzie do the same. I’m staring at her and she is staring at me. And we cry.
Pretty intense stuff, but after I wrote this, I made the best decision of my life and left my abuser. I often wonder what would have happened had I never started writing?