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Lee's Story This is a true story written by a survivor of domestic violence.
Life in the flat was tolerable. We lived in it for about 5 months, and during this time I kept myself busy. Cleaning the place took no more then an hour each day. It was a really tiny place. I had two friends in close proximity. If I became really bored, I would walk to their flats and visit. I would always be especially cautious on the nights Mike arrived home drunk. Luckily there were not too many incidents, until one night, just before we moved out. I was about eight months pregnant, and Mike came home very late and very drunk. It was a cold, August night. From where I was lying on the couch watching TV with socks on, my feet up and a blanket over me, I heard the Volkswagen Beetle drive into the car park, then come screeching to a halt. Petrified, with my entire body tense, I waited as the minutes ticked by. I just knew, at the core of my being, that this night was going to be challenging. Oh, the fear, even though I knew I had given him absolutely no reason to shout at me. A delicious stew was in a pot waiting to be warmed up. The flat was clinically spotless with nothing out of place. The front door burst open, hitting the wall with such force that it rebounded, slamming into Mike’s face. “F*** BITCH” where are you, you stupid whore?” Mike raged, as he walked in. I sat frozen in fear on the couch. He took one look at me, and then all hell broke lose. “Why have you got your *$#%@ feet up on my couch? I paid good *&$*# money for that couch, and you put your filthy whoring feet up like you own the place?” I never said a word. Terror consumed me. I had never seen Mike as bad as this before. Things had gone to a whole new level. His pupils were so small I could hardly see them. The rage in his face was devil-like. Although now sitting on the couch, I had taken my feet from under the blanket, and placed them in front of me on the floor. I did not dare stand up for fear that he’d hit me. It didn’t help. “Get your fat arse off my couch, bitch” I tried to get up as fast as I could, but now at eight months pregnant, was not as quick as I used to be. Halfway up, I felt a blow to my face that threw me back down onto the couch. “I said GET UP” he shouted. I cowered. Shaking uncontrollably I couldn’t move. I felt like vomiting, but had to control it knowing I couldn’t be sick all over his ‘hard-earned’ couch… Mike grabbed me by the front of my pull-over, hit me hard again, forcing me to the floor. Grabbing my ankles, he yanked my legs high in the air so I was upside down. Then he began systematically bashing my head onto the floor, much like a grave-digger thrusts a spade into the ground. I screamed hysterically. I thought I was going to die. Mike must’ve walloped my head five or six times against the floor before finally stopping. After flinging me across the floor, he strode to the bathroom where he relieved himself. I pulled myself back onto the couch, careful not to put my feet up. Mike never ate the stew I had made earlier. He’d already eaten with his friends in a pub. The following morning Mike got up for work as usual and - as if nothing had happened - asked me why on earth I had slept on the couch. I reminded him about the horrific events of the previous night, and he apologised profusely. “I can’t believe I did that ‘Poops’: I was so drunk, I am sorry….” His apology seemed sincere enough, but was it enough to actually stop the abuse? After he went off to work, I was left to ponder over what my life had become. The top of my head hurt like mad – I had swollen bumps all over it. I couldn’t help wondering how in spite of his intoxicated state, he was able to prevent doing any visible damage to my face. I wondered if this was just luck, or whether he was perhaps a psychopath of sorts? What concerned me too was the fact that not one of my neighbours intervened. Unless they were all stone deaf, they would certainly have heard my screams for help! I learned that day that people prefer not to ‘get involved.’ Within a week of this incident my mother insisted that Mike and I move back in with her. She was worried that, at eight months pregnant, I had to climb up flights of stairs to get to our flat. Although I knew she suspected all was not well, my Mom was not aware of the extent of the abuse I was subjected to by Mike. I was very happy to move back to the relative safety of my parents’ home. A couple of days after moving back, Mike’s sister Maria and her family, along with Mike’s brother Paul all went on holiday to Natal. While they were gone Mike and I stayed in Maria’s house. Because they all lived far out of town on a plot in Lanseria, they liked someone to keep an eye on the place. The plot was owned by Mike’s father. On it he’d built two houses. Maria and her family lived in one, Paul in the other. I was not happy about this. Not only was I due to give birth within a few weeks, there was also the small matter of being isolated on this huge property, at the mercy of Mike, with no one close by. We arrived at the property on a Monday. Days passed without incident. The one good thing was that Maria had a telephone, so I was able to have some communication with the outside world for a change. Then Friday rolled in. Mike should’ve been home at around 5pm the latest. As the hours ticked by, I became increasingly frightened. Not only was I vulnerable on this vast property with no security at all, but I knew that Mike had either been in an accident, or he was getting stuck into a night of serious drinking. At 10pm I heard his car and knew immediately that he was very drunk because of how the beetle entered the driveway. Reeking of alcohol, his face red and puffy, eventually Mike walked through the door. The abuse started almost immediately. I tried to retreat to the spare bedroom, just to get away from him. Stumbling badly, Mike followed me, hurling insults all the while. I just sat on the bed and sobbed. He walked out. I really did not know how much more of this I could take. Thoughts of bringing a new little baby into this hell ran through my head. Would he hurt my baby, I wondered? Seconds later Mike stormed back in. This time armed with Paul’s shotgun. I couldn’t believe it. Begging him to put the weapon down, I pleaded for him to calm down and get to bed. “%$ #*k you, bitch. Tonight, TONIGHT THERE’S GOING TO BE A MURDER IN LANSERIA!” I had done absolutely nothing to provoke this. Mike was horribly intoxicated, and full of rage. A rage I did not understand. Visions of the ‘grave digging’ incident a week earlier flashed through my head. ‘Oh my God’ I thought, ‘this bastard is going to kill me’. I had to somehow get out of the house. I moved towards the front door. It was still standing open. Like it was the race of my life, I ran into the freezing darkness of that cold, August night, not even noticing the cold. “Come back here whore” screamed Mike. I fled into the long grass of the African veld, and fell over an anthill. Although I could see his silhouette against the lights of the house, I could not see his face. Trembling, I huddled behind the anthill as he approached. He was getting closer. The small heap was only about two meters into the veld from the driveway. Mike was probably five meters away, when suddenly a blood-curdling bang rang out. Mike had shot in my direction. Pellets from the shotgun hit the anthill. I couldn’t believe it. I was shivering from intense fear, still not feeling the cold. ‘Was I hit?’ I wondered. If I was my body was so numb and in shock that I couldn’t feel it. I was subconsciously aware of a warm sensation between my legs. ‘Oh God, it’s the baby – the baby’s coming’. I ran further into the darkness, praying that I would not die out there. Again, I stumbled and fell. This time I lay still, listening for sounds of the beast; a wild human predator, out for the kill. What seemed like hours were probably minutes. I heard nothing. I was trying to breathe short breaths so as not to draw Mike towards me. It was difficult. Adrenalin surged through me. My heart pounded as I tried to suppress the urge to gulp air into my lungs. I lifted my head from the dirt, and looked up to see where the beast was. The light from the house was gone. I guessed that Mike had made his way back inside, but waited for probably an hour or more before finally making my way to the door. As I sat crouched in the dark, teeth chattering now from the cold, I realised with relief that my baby was not yet on the way. My waters had not broken. I had wet myself with fright. Luckily the front door wasn’t locked so I snuck in, careful not to bump into anything in the dark. Leaving the front door unlocked in case I’d need to make a quick escape later, I tip-toed up the passage, trying to contain my loud breathing. Hearing the loud snoring coming from Maria’s bedroom, I knew the monster had passed out. Relieved that my demise was not on the cards for that that night, I crawled into the bed in the spare bedroom, but could not sleep. I thought of calling my mother, but the risk was simply too great that Mike would hear me. I prayed for the morning to come. I knew from the previous week that Mike would probably wake up oblivious to the torment he had put me through. The sun finally came up. After I made coffee in the kitchen, I sat on the porch in the cold light of that brisk winter morning, sipping from my mug, staring out at the vast landscape. Feeling no movement in my belly, anxious and exhausted, I wondered whether my baby was still alive or not. To be continued next month . . . “If just one woman, trapped in an abusive relationship is able to find the emotional tools to leave and better her life through reading my story, then writing it will have been worth it.” – Lee
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