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Come Spring Again

A lesson in resilience in the face of adversity

By NettiPublished 3 years ago Updated 3 years ago 6 min read
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Come Spring Again
Photo by Daniel Joshua on Unsplash

"Do you remember, darling?"

Cold fingers skim over my cheek, and I flinch back. Immediately, by the way his eyes darken with rage, I know that was the wrong move to make. I try to brace myself, but that doesn't make his retaliation hurt any less.

His backhand stings me so harshly that I'm thrown through the rotting doors of the old barn at my back. I land awkwardly, my throbbing cheek scraping against unforgiving ground, my hands splayed out in a pitiful attempt to stop my fall. I swallow down the whimper that builds in my throat. There's no need to give him more ammunition to hurt me.

"Now look what you've made me do," he complains, roughly grasping my chin and forcing me to look at him through my matted fringe of hair. I blink back tears through the pain radiating across half of my face.

His eyes, a rusty brown reminiscent of dried blood, look down upon me with sadistic amusement. I'm not even a person to him, just a toy; something to play with to pass the time, something for him to toss around until I break like a glass figurine.

But I'm not made of glass, I'm made of soft flesh and blood, of brittle bones and fear so deep that I could fill an ocean with it. Bruises mottle my skin in layers, some a fresh, pockmarked purple, others yellow with age. Raised silver scars expose themselves beneath the dying light of the sun streaming into the abandoned barn. I can no longer remember a time without them, just as I can no longer recall what it feels like to be young, or healthy, or even beautiful.

And yet, even as he yanks me to my feet hard enough to nearly wrench my arm from its socket, I would like to think that I am like a plant.

Plants are tenacious little fuckers. Give them water, soil, and sunlight, and they will grow. Some thrive in bountiful paradises, others survive even in the harshest conditions. In spring, the flowers bloom; in summer, they thrive; in fall, they bend; in winter, they wither. But come spring again, and they burst forth with the rain in a glorious explosion of life.

For me, now it is winter. The monster before me who wears a man's face is like hoarfrost over the green grass of my life. He grabs my shoulders and turns me around so that I'm facing the empty stables where horses used to be kept before this place fell into ruin.

"Do you remember?" he repeats, snaking his arms around my waist, settling his open hands across my vulnerable stomach. I suppress the shiver of disgust that tries to ripple up my spine as hands that have literally beaten me to near-death now dip beneath the dirty, ragged edges of my torn shirt with deceptive tenderness. "I would be terribly upset if you say that you don't."

I stare ahead, wishing that I didn't remember. Physical pain is easy to deal with. Predictable.

Emotional pain isn't.

A tape reel of memories unfold in my head when I close my eyes. Of a time before the war, when we were both young and stupidly in love, when we had believed that our happiness was eternal. Right here, in this old barn, we had promised to marry after the war, exchanging vows rather than rings. Outside, the white dogwood tree had been in full bloom, scattering its flowers across the dusty grounds.

My sweetheart went to war when he was called, and never came back. I fear that he died on the battlefield amidst scenes of carnage too horrible for me to envision. All that's left of him is the monster with a man's face. A monster who is needlessly cruel, takes pleasure in inflicting pain, and knows nothing of kindness.

"I remember," I say dully.

"Good," he breathes, dropping his head low enough for his nose to skim across my neck, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. One of his hands moves upwards, his nails scratching lightly at the underside of my breasts. The other cradles my left hand, where a gold ring sits on my fourth finger.

I can't look at it without feeling nauseous these days.

"You're mine, Vivi. I won't ever let you go." His grip tightens, crushing me to his chest possessively even though there's nobody to bear witness for miles around. All of my bruises ache at his declaration. He means it quite literally.

I don't say anything back. I stopped when he began interpreting my words as a rebellion against him, back when the abuse first started and he kissed me with his fists instead of his lips. Now I can only speak when he asks me a question directly. Anything else earns me a beating.

There is nothing else to see in the old barn, so he releases me just enough to turn me around and walk back out of the broken doors. The sun is already halfway below the horizon, casting an orange glow over the weathered wood. The whole abandoned farm is set ablaze by its golden light, from the broken barbed-wire fences of former pastures to the gutted house standing a little ways away from the barn, its roof sagging inwards and leaving rusty metal piping exposed to the elements.

He leads me past the house, his fingers lightly gripping my wrist in warning. I don't try to run; I know what'll happen to me if I do. Already, the vision in my right eye is blurring because of my swollen cheek. I don't fancy another black eye on top of that, so I stay quiet and let him take me down the worn path back down to his truck.

On the way, I catch sight of the dogwood tree standing proudly among the ruins, seemingly untouched by time. Its branches do not weep, they are full and strong.

I can only admire it for a scant few seconds before I am pulled along again by the monster with a man's face.

One day, I will be like that dogwood tree. In the language of flowers, the dogwood flower represents 'rebirth,' but also 'durability' and 'resilience.' I am like a plant, I may bend and I may bow and wither, but I shan't let this break me.

Winters don't last forever. When my spring comes again, I know I will be ready.

For now, I must endure.

With my free hand, I cradle the soft swell of my stomach, the only part of my body that is blessedly bruise-free, and I pray for the dawn.

Short Story
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About the Creator

Netti

A hobby writer and aspiring novelist with a far too active imagination that she wishes to share.

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