By Chat Flamboyant

19 July 2008

Setting the scene is always the hardest part of telling the story.

The bar that night was crowded.

Smoke created a thin haze in the room, and the dim lights gave all of the patrons a kind of half way halo.

He introduced himself as John, Then he offered me a drink.

John was tall and handsome; he had an air about him that seemed to demand respect.

I could tell that he thought that he had me, and my resolve was beginning to run thin.

I just kept saying to myself..."I deserve this, I deserve him."

The first few months passed by in a blur of heart shaped colors and endearments.

John and i were living together in an apartment downtown.

Breathing the same air.

Learning each others boiling points.

John was a loving and kind man.

In the beginning.

He doted on me and paraded me around town as if he was trying to say to the world "She is mine and no one else's, how lucky am I to have caught her."

Yet the first night he came home drunk, I later realized, was the beginning of the end.

It was three o'clock in the morning and I was terrified...my John was not home, he hadn't called, and he hadn't done anything to alert me that he might be late.

My stomach was in knots.

I couldn't sleep.

Every time I breathed in, all I could smell was him.

I was so worried he was hurt or dead that when he staggered into the apartment that morning smelling of whisky and cigarette smoke, all I could think of was how relieved i was to see him.

I ran to him and repeatedly punched him on the chest openly crying, and he did nothing but shove me away and go into the bedroom never saying a word.

When he finally woke up and looked at me, i knew that he could see the anger and pain that I was feeling towards him.

He told me it would never happen again.

Sadly.

I believed him.

By:Caitlin Heath ('08)

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