In the dimming light, a grill did wait
Its flames unseen, its fate abate
You, hesitant, unsure to ignite
Fearful of the consequences in the night
A call to grandpa, guidance sought
Five times you rang, the answers caught
Yet upon arrival, the deed laid before
Not as desired, met with a glare
Words of anger, harsh and loud
Thrown like stones into the crowd
A laptop hurled, a storm of pain
While the chicken cooked, amidst the disdain
In the shadows cast, a lesson learned
Of fires lit and tempers burned
Not all is as it might seem
In the silence of a broken dream
There’s so much to domestic violence. Victim’s live in fear of every choice they make, every piece of clothing they wear, the music they listen to, how they do their hair, how they organize the fridge, I mean, the list is endless, and despite the millions of scenarios running through our heads, we rarely get their reactions, or abuse right.
My ex-fiancé called me from work and asked me to get the grill ready so he can cook chicken when he got home. I told him I didn’t know how to do that. He told me it was easy, and I even said, “I don’t want to do it wrong and make you mad.” He replied with, “It’s easy. You’ll do fine.” Knowing I wouldn’t be fine, I called my grandpa about 5 times and asked how to properly light a grill. He was getting irritated, not understanding why I couldn’t follow directions. (I’ve never lit any kind of grill before at this point) Anyway, I gave it a shot. The grill was lit, and I felt like I did a good job.
He gets home and runs in the house screaming about how stupid I am, and “What kind of moron doesn’t know how to light a grill, what the fuck is your problem, why are you so stupid, you can’t do anything right, you’re a fucking stupid retarded cunt. You dumb fucking retard.” He was so mad that he grabbed his laptop, and he threw it at my head, left yet another bruise that I had to dismiss my son for over the next week, so he didn’t see… And my son again, thought I was purposely abandoning him. I was only keeping him safe, in the way I knew how to.
The ironic thing here is that he didn’t touch the grill in any way. He cooked the chicken, and it turned out well. (He was a fantastic cook) He said to me, “You’re lucky it turned out good. Otherwise, you’d be hiding for a fucking month.” After each incident similar to this, he'd be cuddly that night. He'd hold my hand, tell me how much he loves me, how beautiful I am and more. He never apologized to me once, not for anything, and especially not for cheating on me with half of the women in the city we lived in.
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