Every choke got a little harder, his grip felt like he was a pro at this. So silly of me to think it would stop after the first I’m sorry. His words are what made me stay, words that can now be called lies.
The hands loosened, and for a while there were smiles but behind the smiles were hurt pain and anguish. Soon the words tightened up and soon they hurt worse than the sweaty hands on my throat. The tear stains turned into permanent bruises. Bruises turned into bad memories and there is no erasing those — the bad memories turn into hate-filled holidays.
Still I stayed, praying that things would get better. And now what do the kids have to remember of their once close-knit family?
Silence, silence kills all.
