Broken Things

___When he left, he took a lot of things with him: their dog, her GPS system, half of their DVDs, and most of the money out of her bank accounts. He didn’t break her, steal away pieces of her pride like most men did during a break up; that always happened each time she gave in and got back together with him. How many times had it been now? Three, four? Five? It was a wonder there was anything left, really.
___She was too afraid to enter her apartment when she got home from work. The logical part of her brain told her that this was for any number of very good reasons. He might be there, waiting to hurt her. He might come back while she was home for the same reason. He may have come while she was away and destroyed her dearest belongings, leaving her to pick up the pieces. But deep down, she knew the worst thing for her would be going up to that apartment and finding nothing out of place other than the lack of his presence. It would be quiet, like the aftermath of a hurricane, and she would be alone. This, more than anything rational, was terrifying, and this was why she kept taking him back.
___Sitting in the parking lot with her hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, she dipped her bruised face into the bend of her forearm. She had cried so much today that there were no tears left to fall, but her back quaked with each sob nonetheless. A whirlwind of emotion tormented her despite the quiet, soothing sound of rain gently falling over the roof of the car. Part of her desperately longed to jettison the heavy shackles of their relationship for good, knowing how it would always end no matter how sweet he acted in the first weeks after she accepted him back. Part of her also longed for him the way an junkie craved his addiction, and by now her self esteem was so thoroughly destroyed that she could convince herself that anything he said or did was justified.
___After all, it was only one black eye.
___Her cell phone buzzed to life on the seat beside her, screen glowing blue in the dimness of the car. She startled at the sound and stared for a long moment before tentatively picking it up to read the name on the caller ID. She felt a twinge of shame for hoping, somewhere in the back of her mind, that it would be him. The number on the screen was her mother’s, and she felt both relief and trepidation. There was no hope that her voice would not betray her condition; she would have to tell her everything, hear the anger and hurt and worry in her mother’s responses like she had so many times before.
___Their conversation, like the day’s earlier events, flew by in a blinding flurry of emotion. Her mother asked all of the concerned maternal questions like, “did he hurt you?” and “do you need me to come over?” before launching into her furious tirade reprimanding her daughter for being so foolish. This wasn’t quite blaming the victim, more a product of concerned sorrow, and a desperate plea to comprehend how she chose him time and time again over her family, over herself. By the end of the discussion they were both crying, and she heard the half-hearted and unconvinced hope in her mother’s cracking voice as she quietly said,
___“I’m glad you’ve gotten rid of him, honey.”
___She said goodnight and hung up the phone, but did not leave the car. Forehead cradled in her hands, she quietly whispered to herself in hollow despair,
___“He'll never go away that easily.”