April 18th

"Wait, Cat. Just wait one more minute." I thought to myself as I sat at the foot of the bed trying desperately to control my shaking for fear that I might wake him up and ruin my escape plan. I had already got my bag ready the last time he passed out and set it right next to the door with my sandals. I was even able to get my pants on the last time, but that's when he woke up again.

"What are you doing?" He demanded to know in an angry drunk voice.

"I'm just putting on my pants 'cus I'm a little cold." I replied, trying not to give him any indication of my plan to leave.

"Take those off!" he demanded. "I don't like that. It makes me feel like you're trying to leave."

I tried to reassure him. "I'm just cold, that's all," but he wasn't having it.

"Take those off and get back in the bed NOW!" He ordered with a seriousness in his voice that told me it was safer just to obey his command and avoid any further pain.

So I did what he said. I returned to the bed and continued to wait for my chance at freedom. I laid there, pinned underneath his arm and leg in a prison-like embrace, staring at the dirty white wall and wondering how I got here.

How did I get to this place where I was willing to put myself in danger, sacrificing my safety and my freedom for a hot shower and a home-cooked meal? Could this really be worth it? The thought of having a real home with comforts like electricity at the flick of a switch and hot water at the turn of a knob - and dare I dream, a friend - was all so tempting that I walked right into the devil's mouth without blinking.

It was so obvious to me now that this place was no home, these waters were far too hot for comfort, and the devil is no friend.

Finally, after what seemed like hours but in retrospect was probably more like 20 minutes, he rolled over and I was freed from his grip. I slowly sat up and inched my way to the foot of the bed where I sat for a moment staring at the TV, waiting to make sure he was really asleep this time. I had already tried this move several times throughout the night.

I would wait until he passed out from the beer and Fireball Whiskey that he had been drinking non-stop since I arrived and when he finally rolled over, releasing me from my prison, I would make it to the foot of the bed only to have him wake up angry that I was no longer laying next to him. "Get back here!" He would demand as he grabbed me and pulled me back up the bed and under his arm again. A couple of times he even rolled right off the bed and onto the floor, knocking over empty beer cans and waking himself up in the process, stopping my plans before they began.

It's a wonder how I didn't notice all the beer cans laying on the floor when I first entered his house. I guess I was too distracted by the lack of, well, anything else. There was no couch in the living room, no table in the dining room, no chairs to sit on. Just a mattress on the floor, a bench press, and alcohol.

"I'm in the middle of redecorating," he said the moment I walked into his house. "Okay. Well that might excuse the lack of furniture," I thought to myself, "but what about all the empty beer cans and half-drunken bottles of whiskey everywhere, or the fact that he is already drunk at 9 AM?" I tried to explain it away in my head. Maybe he's lonely and depressed and just needs some help. Maybe this home just needs a woman's touch.

It's crazy how desperation can make us do such nonsensical things that we would otherwise never do.

Like the daughter of an alcoholic trying to explain away such obvious signs of alcohol abuse. But that's what I was; desperate. Desperate for a bathroom and a kitchen and companionship. But it was clear to me now that there could be no companionship here. I would find no comfort or friendship within these walls, for those things cannot survive in the darkness of fear.

After a few more minutes of waiting at the foot of the bed listening to him snore, a sound I will probably never forget, I felt confident enough to make my move. I took a deep breath and I stood up. I tip-toed around the bed, passing his unconscious body and the beer cans on the floor. I quickly put my pants on, slid my feet into my sandals, grabbed my bag, and headed to the door.

I unlocked the deadbolt and, with my hand on the doorknob, looked back once more to make sure he wasn't behind me. Then I turned the knob gently and opened the door. I stepped outside, carefully closing the door behind me, and ran to my van. My hands were shaking which made it difficult to hold onto my keys. "Breathe, Cat. Just breathe." I calmed myself enough to stop shaking, unlocked my van, and jumped inside.

Lock the door.

Start the engine.

Drive.

I made it to the end of the block. A left and then a right. Which way is the freeway? Then I saw his car behind me and I froze, my heart beating wildly. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. But the car turned left and drove away. It wasn't him. That's when the tears burst out. I started shaking so violently I could hardly hold on to the steering wheel. Then I saw the sign for the freeway.

I gripped the wheel and floored it, tears streaming down my face, blurring my vision and fueling my fears. I drove for about an hour until I was back in the valley where I parked for the night. I spent the next couple of hours crying and hating myself, reliving the day's trauma in my head until my mind was too exhausted to think another thought and I shut down.

Another wound that will take time to heal and leave another scar that will tell another story. But for now, all I can do is sleep.

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