Life in the apartment Twice and I shared in Collins was simple and almost “normal.” He was away from the dark influences of his family and drug-addict acquaintances, and I enjoyed being able to keep my own home. We lived together there for a few months before things began to spiral once more.
That October was one that will forever haunt me. I’d been feeling a little
off” and can think of no other way to describe it. I purchased one of those $1 pregnancy tests out of habit, knowing that was always the first thing a doctor would do. Expecting the usual single line, I froze when I saw the second line darken. I had done nothing to avoid pregnancy but had come to believe it would never happen for me. Ovulation and menstrual issues had led to well-meant advice from doctors to lower my expectations. Moments passed as I waited for the dream to come to an end.
When I admitted to myself that this was real, I shuffled to the bedroom and shook Twice’s large shoulder. When he blinked at me blearily, I showed him the little stick. As he struggled to shake the fog from his mind, I tried to force words past my dry lips. Realization dawned, and the color drained from his face. I chuckled nervously and shrugged; all logic fled, and I was left speechless. Other than that, I scarcely remember his reaction, absorbed as I was in my own feelings.
I wanted nothing more in my entire life than to be a mother. I had dreamt of a child of my own for as long as I could remember. Naturally, these dreams took place in a financially stable place with a loving husband at my side, but I was determined. I’d be the best mother I could be despite my circumstances. I would claw my way free from the miserable pit I’d thrown myself into and fight for a better life.
I quit smoking immediately and began taking prenatal vitamins. I shared my news excitedly with Rebecca, and I felt like I was floating through space in my joyous little bubble. I cradled my belly at night, crooning words of love and care to my miniscule miracle.
Sadly, this joy lasted less than a week. One afternoon, I began to bleed and cramp. Panic immediately set in, and I looked to Twice for help. He knew of no way to respond other than suggest a visit to the doctor. It was a Sunday, so I had no choice but to visit the local ER. I tried to settle my nerves and remain calm, but all I could think about was how close I was to losing the most precious thing I’d ever had.
I waited with my feet uncomfortably braced up in stirrups, shaking uncontrollably. Twice remained in the waiting room, as we had the kids for the weekend. A large Indian man ambled into the room snapping gloves onto his hands with a businesslike air. He briskly asked about my symptoms before asking me to scoot down to the edge of the bed. I awkwardly obeyed while answering him in a small voice. With a brief warning, the doctor proceeded to examine me with an instrument that looked more like a torture device.
Tears slid down my cheeks as I prayed fervently to the God I’d ignored for so long. The doctor pulled the sheet down over my legs as he concluded his probing investigation. Feeling thoroughly vulnerable and exposed, I listened as the doctor explained that bleeding in pregnancy was common, and he’d found nothing of concern in his examination. He informed me that their hospital lacked the tools necessary to confirm the viability of the fetus, so I had to go to Forrest General Hospital in Hattiesburg.
Still feeling that impending sense of doom, I dressed quickly and practically ran from the room. Twice, annoyed at having his day disrupted by my hysteria, grumbled as we made our way back to the next hospital. We weren’t there long before Nanna arrived, ready to comfort me no matter the outcome. Twice, free to leave with the two bored boys, eagerly left me in her care.
I was taken back shortly to a room where they would do an ultrasound. I was told that, due to the early stage of my pregnancy, they would have to perform an intrauterine ultrasound. The tech showed me a disturbingly large wand that looked oddly like a large curling iron before proceeding with the test. She prodded, pressed, and poked while the other hand pushed down on varying parts of my abdomen. Clicking away at the keys, the tech remained silent in concentration as my Nanna attempted to distract me from the situation with light conversation.
I was nearly overwhelmed by the anxiety before the tech suddenly turned the screen toward me. I twisted my neck until I could see the grainy image. A tiny pulsing blob was attached to the edge of a dark circle. Uncomprehending, I asked what the image contained, exactly. The tech pointed a gloved finger at the blob and told me that the pulsing was the heart beating. Though the blob had no shape or distinguishable form, it was alive and in the process of becoming a human child. I stared with wonder at the marvel of human reproduction.
I reluctantly released some of my terror and allowed relief to slowly take its place. Nanna squeezed my hand reassuringly, and she helped to ease some of my tension as she took me home.
I was faced with the true horror of my situation later that evening when I felt the strong pains of contractions in my lower back. I’d begun to bleed heavily before passing a large clot. Everything after that moment is a bit hazy. I can only remember the intensity of the feelings that engulfed me. I was pulled under the waves of sorrow and loss, and I felt no reason to fight. I dragged the gleaming blade of a kitchen knife over my hips and watched as the blood welled before spilling over. I was fascinated with the way my skin parted so easily, and I considered doing the same to my neck. My jugular pulsed visibly, and I knew I could escape the pain with a single, forceful cut.
The pounding on the bathroom door interrupted my thoughts, and Twice barged in before I could move a muscle. Taking in the scene, he snatched the knife and roared at me in frustration. He seemed more inconvenienced by my situation than otherwise affected. He didn’t mourn a loss as I did. He stated that I was acting irrationally over something that wasn’t even a living being. He followed this with cruel remarks that I was not ready to be anyone’s mother.
I was stunned by his lack of compassion. I knew it was different for him, since he already had children of his own and had not been physically affected by the loss. But I had still hoped he’d care for my own feelings. I raged and screamed at him willing him to feel the pain I was feeling. I swung my fists for his arms, chest, and belly. He did nothing but sigh testily and push me away. I sobbed and clawed at my pained chest, wishing I could rip the offending organ from its place behind my ribs. Time ceased to exist as the agony swallowed me. Blackness took me mercifully and held me until late the next morning.
Twice was gone, and I was alone with my grief. My head ached fiercely, my tongue felt like sandpaper in my dry mouth, and my eyes were nearly swollen shut. I winced as the sheet pulled against the healing cuts on my side. I sent a brief text to my manager explaining that I could not go in to work before tossing my phone uncaringly to the side. I used the day to try to understand what had happened.
I painstakingly placed my emotions on their respective shelves before sealing the door to that area of myself. Focusing on each breath necessary to my survival, I went through the motions of the following days in a detached manner. I smiled and laughed at the right moments, even offering my own jokes when appropriate. As far as the outside world was concerned, I was healing.
In time, I permitted myself to feel, carefully limiting the flow of the emotions I’d kept caged. I was aware of the dangers of releasing them all at once, and I knew I wouldn’t survive the onslaught.
Twice had begun spending more time with his family and “friends” in Purvis/Oak Grove after work, and his nights grew longer. I knew almost instantly when he came home one night that he’d fallen once more. His pinpricked pupils were nearly hidden in his bloodshot eyes, and he twitched as if avoiding some unseen assailant. He glared at me accusingly and asked what I’d been doing. I sighed heavily, ignoring his question as I left the room in search of my cigarettes.
I knew I’d only piss him off more, but I hoped I’d avoid a bigger fight by holding my tongue. I knew I’d done nothing wrong in his absence. I’d spent my day at work and my evening binging Netflix. I’d already begun to resent him after his attitude regarding my miscarriage. His behavior was his way of deflecting. His guilty conscience pushed him to accuse me of wrongdoing before I had the chance to call him out on his own. I’d experienced this tactic before and reacted in his favor. I’d grown defensive and would believe I had actually done wrong. This time was different. I’d played this game before, and I had no interest in repeating the experience.
I scrolled through my phone as I smoked my cigarette in my chair outside the door. I felt him watching me and glanced to find his narrowed eyes peeking through the blinds. Twice hated others to witness our altercations, likely because he fully realized how ridiculous and reprehensible his behavior was.
After my second cigarette, I realized I couldn’t avoid Twice forever, lest I burn through my whole pack. The lights were out when I entered the living room. Eyes adjusting to the darkness, I found the ominous shape hunched on the recliner. Flipping the light switch, I nearly jumped when I found Twice sitting, motionless, staring at me. His hands were folded in front of his mouth, elbows resting on his knees. Blue eyes blazed with savage madness as they burned into me.
As I’ve mentioned already, I’d lost my patience with these manipulative games, and I was not going to allow him to bully me. I cocked a brow and asked with an undertone of challenge, “Can I help you with something?”
Twice remained still, and I could see a muscle ticking in his clenched jaw. I rolled my eyes and went to the bedroom to continue my Netflix show. It wasn’t long before I heard the front door slam and gravel crunching under tires as Twice pulled out of the driveway.
My lack of a degree in Psychology has prevented my being able to decipher the many moods and behaviors of Twice, but I could usually hypothesize when presented with enough clues. For instance, he was clearly guilty of something judging by his unreasonable accusations and twitchy demeanor. I knew I’d angered him when I ignored him for as long as I did and found him sulking afterward. However, I still didn’t know exactly what his thoughts were in that moment before I left the room. Was he considering how best to punish me?
These concerns plagued me until I fell asleep in the middle of an episode. I woke sometime later, feeling as though I was being watched. I realized I wasn’t wrong when my eyes adjusted to the gloom, and I heard the breathing near me. I reached for the lamp switch and started when I saw Twice leaning over me. He looked much as he had from the recliner earlier in the evening, except the circles under his eyes were darker. I sat up and demanded an explanation.
In response he smirked darkly and waved my phone in the air. Knowing I had nothing incriminating on my phone because I’d done nothing wrong, I shot him an incredulous look.
“Mind showing me what it is you’ve found that’s so upsetting?” I demanded, impatient and exhausted. Twice continued smirking and shook his head at me.
“You tell me,” he said. This was a sign that his mind had convinced him he’d found damning evidence of my wrongdoing in my phone, but he didn’t know yet what to make of the information.
I’ve always hated being woken up under normal circumstances, but I was furious that I had to deal with such idiocy at nearly four in the morning. Throwing the covers to the side, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood abruptly. Shoving past Twice, I snatched my phone from his unsuspecting grasp and stormed outside.
Know he’d follow, I left the door open behind me as I lit my cigarette and took a long drag. He always accused me of deleting the evidence of my crime if he wasn’t able to see exactly what I was doing with my phone. I always replied that I was smarter than he assumed and would be much stealthier if I really wanted to hide something from him.
Keeping my brightly lit screen clearly visible, I unlocked my phone and asked that he show me what he’d found that was so upsetting. He scoffed and shook his head before replying.
“You’ve already put it all in your little folder,” he accused disapprovingly.
Confused, I asked him, “What folder are you talking about?”
“Your little secret folder. The one where you hide all the shit you don’t want me to see,” he snapped at me, impatient with what he took to be my feigned ignorance.
I informed him that I had no clue about any hidden or secret folders. Though I didn’t doubt the possibilities of such a thing existing, I’d never had reason to explore them or test these theories. Heedless of my protests, Twice shook his head disbelievingly, having already chosen what to believe. Seeing that my word would make no difference, I gave up my argument and growled my frustration. Our arguments had grown increasingly volatile, and I was reminded of our time together in the past.
This toxic cycle continued until I could no longer bear. I realized how much I’d enjoyed my independence, and I was unwilling to place myself back under the control of this capricious man. I’d learned to take nearly everything with equanimity, maintaining a level of self-control I’d previously lacked. My delicate composure disintegrated when Twice “disappeared” for nearly a week.
The first night Twice didn’t come home didn’t panic me. I assumed he was out tweaking in a dumpster or at his mom’s house. I couldn’t allow these occurrences to disrupt my life and job. The next evening came and went with no word of Twice. I called his boss and a friend of his, both of which claiming they hadn’t seen him. I asked another acquaintance of his if they’d seen Twice, and they denied any knowledge of his whereabouts. I tried to quell the rising unease as I called nearby hospitals and jails. On the fourth or fifth day, I decided I’d file a missing person's report if I hadn’t located Twice by the end of that day.
The bright beams of headlights shone through the windows casting shadows on the far walls in the living room late that evening. Recognizing the dark grey Ford Explorer, I felt relief that was rapidly overshadowed by fury. Though I’d hoped and prayed for his safe return, I knew it could only mean that his absence had been of his own volition.
I worked to compose myself, inhaling deeply for patience and slowly releasing the breaths. My head ached my blood was heated with building resentment. I sat poised on the edge of my chair as I waited for Twice to come inside. I braced myself, preparing for whatever might come.
The door opened slowly, and Twice entered, head down. He pushed the door closed behind him and stood with his gaze lowered. I sat, rigid with tension, clenching my jaw tightly. Impatient to get this over with, I spoke first.
“Where the hell have you been?” I asked in a low tone. The shakiness in my voice was barely perceptible but still betrayed the intensity of my emotions.
Twice seemed to sense my mood and changed tactics, deciding aggression would benefit him more than acquiescence in this situation. His head snapped up, nostrils flared. As his posture changed from hunched submission to predatory hostility, I rose from my seat allowing my own anger to burst forth.
Nearly a foot shorter than Twice, I have always had to crane my neck to look up into his eyes. Fists clenched, I lifted my chin and silently dared him to make his move. Adrenaline felt like electricity buzzing its way through my veins. I was charged from days of worry and fear that had evolved into outrage.
“None of your fucking business,” Twice spat at me. He hoped to crush me with brute force rather than futilely deflect my queries. I met him halfway as he marched across the room. I shook with rage rather than fear. The buildup of my resentment, rage, and grief had been threatening to consume me, and I redirected it all at Twice. I screamed countless insults, profanities, and accusations in his direction. Unprepared for the magnitude of my response, Twice recoiled. His surprise was short-lived, and he resumed his own shouting.
The argument continued to increase in volume before the words were nearly unintelligible, and neither of us could resist the urge to resort to physical means. Twice shot his arm out and wrapped his large, calloused fingers around my neck. He tightened his grip when I began to struggle and forced me to back up until my back hit the wall behind me. I clawed into his hand with one of my own while reaching for his face with my other. He pulled my neck sharply forward before thrusting it back again, slamming the base of my skull into the drywall. My senses rattled as my oxygen supply began to run low. I ceased my struggles and gave in, going limp as the adrenaline faded.
Twice cautiously released me, and my body fell into a heap on the floor. He scoffed and told me that my behavior was the reason he never wanted to come home. I ignored his hateful remarks and focused on breathing past the soreness in my throat. When he slammed the door behind him, I sagged with relief.
In the Spring of 2018, I got the call from my Aunt Em that her mother, my Aunt Lynn, had passed away in her sleep. With this news came an offer to change my situation. Aunt Em was going to be moving into the house nearby with her father to help care for him. She was willing to rent her trailer to me for an affordable price. I seized this opportunity with a flare of hope I’d long since thought extinguished.
I loaded everything I could into the bed of my truck with the assistance of my cousins, making only two trips to gather all of my belongings. I was fully moved into the trailer and nearly unpacked before I ever got a call from Twice. It took him three days to return to the apartment from his most recent adventure, and I was able to move completely out unnoticed. The only reason he even found out was because the landlady saw me moving and called him to ask if he was terminating the lease agreement. He seemed more upset at my “sneaky” behavior than the fact that I’d left him in the first place. I didn’t care either way at that point.
I was simply determined to make the best of my latest chance at a new life. I applied to school, again, and made plans to climb from my pit. However painful or strenuous it might be, I was determined to move forward and improve my life. Twice was right about one thing: I hadn’t been ready to be a mother. I’d be damned if I let that remain true. I was going to prove to him and everyone else in my life that I was capable of anything I wished. I was strong, smart, and powerful in my own right. I refused to regret any of my past, but instead, I chose to learn and evolve from every experience leading up to then.
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