For the last two years, I’ve been recalling fragments of old memories—
Unclear and incoherent.
Whenever I try to remember or talk about it,
I’m only able to start from the end.
A dark street in an empty neighborhood at 11 o’clock.
I was running to get away from him.
I was afraid of getting kidnapped in a dark street, so I ran.
It’s as if the whole world was against me.
I hopped in a minibus,
And I don’t remember what happened after.
I blocked three days out of my memory.
I can not remember what I did,
Nor what I was thinking.

I only remember,
being in a taxi later,
talking to the woman I love the most.
“He wanted to kill me.
My knee is scraped.
He doesn’t want to divorce me,” I told her.

It all started when I had the audacity to tell him,
“You’re talking silly.”
They were the longest 45 minutes of my life.
He screamed at me and yelled,
Then I found him all of a sudden on top of me,
Pressing a pillow to my face.
I couldn’t breathe.
My body was giving up.
I couldn’t resist him.
He got off of me and said,
“I’m not trying to suffocate you.
I’m just trying to shut you up.”
He left the room,
And I stayed put,
wondering if I will be able to survive the rest of the night.
Will he break my arm or leg?
Who should I call to come get me?
I was scared of getting out of the room.
He came back and said,
“You’re going to stop crying now,
And get dressed.
We’re going out for dinner.”
I felt like I was with a sadistic schizophrenic person.
I refused.
“I’ll wait outside.
You’ll stop crying this minute,
And come out.”
I got dressed and told him,
“I’m leaving.
I won’t stay here for a minute longer.”
He kept shoving me onto the couch.
I got even more scared.
All I could think of was how to get out of there in one piece.
I humored him and told him we should talk.
I didn’t listen to anything he said.
He hit me on my knee with something.
I broke down.
The more I struggled,
The more he shoved me,
And the more he restrained me.
I managed to get away.
I opened the door,
And ran down the stairs.
I ran as fast I could,
While looking back to see if he was following me.

That day was the last day I believed I could be loved without getting hurt.
It was the day I lost faith in the world;
That it could be kind.
I lost faith in finding support.

He was my last love.
Not because I couldn’t find it,
But because I stopped loving even myself.
I stopped believing that someone could care about me,
And want me to stay in their life.
This is the love that cost me years of doctor visits, medication,
And breakdowns that I still go through.
I keep telling myself that I didn’t die that day,
That I’m stronger.
I’m searching for the faith I lost in the dark street that day.