"No way he can kick through those bolts," my friend whispered as the man who'd been my boyfriend for a year laid another thump on my apartment door.
She and I bartended together, and I had confided in her the real reason behind the bruises on my face that I'd unsuccessfully masked with foundation.
"You have to leave him," she said. "I'll stay with you until things cool down."
But this was fantasy. When the door gave way, Vic barreled through, tearing her away before dragging me by my ankles down three flights of stairs. As I twisted and turned, trying to grab ahold of something—anything—my face took several hits on the cement steps.
"You son of a bitch, I'm calling the cops," my friend yelled. By the time we got to his car, there was zero fight left in me. I slumped on the seat, defeated. Once we reached his apartment, it only took a couple of shoves before I was back in the very place I hoped never to return. "If that bitch calls the cops and they arrest me, I'll kill your mom and your sister as soon as I get out," he seethed. "And then I'll come for you."
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