Award-winning book on surviving domestic violence

Chapter Four
Hell’s Kitchen
“Hell is a place, a time, a consciousness, in which there is no love.” —Richard Bach

I walked into the house slowly as I was not sure what to expect. He had certainly been mad before, but tonight was different. I put my purse down and stood around in the kitchen, waiting for him to get there. There was no way for me to avoid the unavoidable, so whatever was coming my way, I was prepared.

I heard his car pull into the driveway. He approached the door, and I heard him turn the lock to walk in; I had not bothered locking the door, as there was no need. As he walked into the house with his youngest son, he told his son to have a seat on the couch in the den and watch television until it was time for the both of them to leave.

“You must think I am crazy!” he shouted at me.

Flabbergasted, I said, “What are you talking about?”

He then went on to say, “So you mean to tell me I did not see them walk up to you, whisper something in your ear, you turn around, start laughing, and then walk off? Who is the fool? Am I the fool, Tamika?”

To which my response was, “What do you mean, are you the fool? What are you talking about?”

The next words that came out of his mouth were shocking. “I am going to BEAT you,” he said, and beat me he did.

Because his youngest son was sitting in my den, he pulled me back to my bedroom. He grabbed me by my suit jacket and slammed me into the wall in my bedroom. At some point during all of this, my chest was scratched and bruised really badly. A year and a half later, I still had some of this physical scarring. I tried to block the blows with my hands and arms by curling into the fetal position to ease  Click to Read More

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