Imagine being at home, sweeping up dust and crumbs off the kitchen tiles. You have set all the trinkets on the counter, and put all the pots, bowls, and pans in the cupboard. Everything appears to be in order. You hear a tink. It sounds as if something tiny and metal has collided with the floor, like a hairpin. You pat your hair to check. You hear three more tinks and a lump of your hair collapses on your shoulders. “Oh crap! I shouldn’t have been in such a rush this morning,” you think to yourself 3d bottom eyelashes 3d bottom eyelashes 3d bottom eyelashes 3d bottom eyelashes 3d bottom eyelashes 3d bottom eyelashes 3d bottom eyelashes 3d bottom eyelashes 3d bottom eyelashes 3d bottom eyelashes 3d bottom eyelashes 3d bottom eyelashes 3d bottom eyelashes 3d bottom eyelashes 3d bottom eyelashes 3d bottom eyelashes 3d bottom eyelashes 3d bottom eyelashes 3d bottom eyelashes 3d bottom eyelashes 3d bottom eyelashes 3d bottom eyelashes 3d bottom eyelashes 3d bottom
You roll your eyes, brush your hair behind your ears, and bend over. As you clasp the pin, your thigh nudges against your fiancée’s glass trophy. It slides off the table, crashes to the floor, and shards into a thousand tiny pieces, which spread like dust around the room. Moments later, your Fiancé arrives at the door. His eyes are red. His hair is a mess. His breath is loud and pulsating. If he were a dragon, floods of flame would burst in and out of his nostrils and singe everything that came within his vicinity. He eyes you. He glances at the floor. He gazes at the counter. He glares at you.
Your breath begins to pulsate. Your nerves tense. You’re chest pumps in and out in steady repetition. You pop up like a pogo stick and dash toward your room like a doe. The hunt is on. He pounces over. Before you can turn the knob, he grabs your wrist, pounds your cheek, and tosses you to the ground.
Liquid fills your eyes, collects around your lashes, slides down you’re face and drops off your chin in droplets. Your cheekbone starts to throb. The light, pale pink around your eye turns to lavender.
He begins to roar; you begin to moan. The atmosphere blends into to a soundscape of roars and moans, which morphs into a symphonic representation of hell. You close your eyes. You clasp your ears, wishing some magical word or shoes would transport you away from this inferno. Sadly, no relief comes. This is your reality. You are a prisoner, subject to the bouts, fits, and abuse of your warden. This is home Dorothy.
If only these scenarios were fantasies. Women from all corners of the country enter abusive relationships after being flung into the street by their families. The men they shack up with are often not charmers from day one, but when placed into the clutches of homelessness, however, they are willing to settle with anyone who will offer them shelter free of charge. I met a girl a few years ago locked into this tragedy.
The summer of 2003 I stepped on board a bus, after picking up a DVD at the Patrick Henry Mall. After I took my seat, a chubby girl with a blond, bobbed haircut, black skirt and a velvet-green top stepped on board. She stumbled a little on the stairs, slid the pass into the card slot, and in an Audrey-Hepburn voice asked how far down Hampton Avenue was. I leaned over and turned my head towards her. ” First time on the bus,” I said. “Yes,” she returned, and plopped her tush next to mine. She told me she spent the greater part of the day popping in and out of stores, dropping off applications and resumes. She told me the managers all said she did not have enough experience.
She said she lived as a house servant for a Mormon woman. ” I do all the household cleaning and pay $100 rent,” she said
The woman, however, was strict and condescending, and often had her on the verge of tears, or frustration when her living situation was brought up in conversation.
As we were talking, the J- Clyde Morris Boulevard Waffle House came into view ” this is my stop” I said, as I yanked the yellow bell cord. “Could I have your number,” the girl said. I tore of part of a sheet of paper from a notebook that sat in my lap, scratched it onto the sheet, and slipped it into her hand. “See you later,” I said scuttling out the door of the bus.
A month passed. I spotted her at Thomas Nelson Community College bursting out of the financial aid office. She snaked around the corner and sat down at a table with a group of stubble-faced, potato chip-crunching, fast food scarfing, soda pop-swilling guys with various sizes of paunches, who blasted digital beasts on their laptops all free hours of the day. They were in the middle of a Magic the Gathering card-duel. She took a small chest out of her pack, opened it, pulled out a deck, and waited for a chance to join in.
I zipped over to say hello. As I neared the table, she shuffled her deck, turned her head, and gave me a corner-smile. “Long time no see,” she said.
I asked if her job hunt had yielded any results. She drew a hand of seven, laid three cards with illustrated swamp landscapes on her left side and a card with a creature illustration right beside it on the table. “Not yet,” she said, as her opponent turned a card counter clockwise. “You take three,” Her opponent said. “I block,” She returned. She took the creature card off the table and set it a foot directly opposite her land cards.
“I’m going out searching in a little bit. Want to come along,” she said. “Alright,” I said. Once the game was over, she packed up her belongings and we headed toward the bus stop.
Once we were on board and pulling out of the school parking lot, I asked her how her living arrangement was working out. ” Its continuing to get worse and worse. The old fat harpy keeps on nagging and nagging. I do everything. She is never satisfied. I sleep in the freaking closet for god sakes, “she said.
She told me the woman accused her of whoring around because of her overnighters at one of the members of the gaming group’s house. “Which one.” I asked. “The one who looks like an orc,” she said.
We got off at the mall. I stayed with her, as she dropped off all her applications. When the clock flipped to four, we headed off to Barnes and Noble. She grabbed a manga graphic novel from the shelf, stepped up to the Starbucks coffee bar and ordered a cappuccino. As she was sipping on her beverage and flipping through the black and white crudely drawn pulp dialogue filled pages, she continued to complain about her housing provider. ” She keeps on pestering me about finding a job. I mean, I am really trying,” Once she was finished with the comic, she placed it back on the shelf, discarded the cardboard cup in the nearest trashcan and headed towards the arcade.
She dropped four coins into the screechy high pitched electro-pop blaring DDR machine slot upon entering the arena of flashing screens and neon lights, and stomped on the tiles as the arrows flashed across a screen. Apparently she was pretty good, considering she could manage to knock out expert mode without much of a problem. She invited me to join. I attempted the lowest setting, but fumbled it. I vowed I was the worst player in the entire history of the game.
Once she finished several rounds with the rest of the arcade dwellers, we headed toward the bus stop. We stepped on board bus-11 and rode until the bus neared the number 112-bus transfer point. She pulled the string. The bus came to a halt and she strutted out side while waving goodbye in flipper fashion.
I decided to give her a ring six weeks later. No answer. I heard from her best friend that she had been kicked out of her home. A week later, I spotted her at the school cafeteria. She told that she came home a few days after Christmas and found her belongings parked at the front door.
The reason for her eviction stemmed from her fascination with the horror movie obsessed, pierce addled, heavy metal blaring, Goth subculture. The woman swore she was a witch because she had received a black cape for Christmas and decided to wear it around the lady’s house. The lady freaked at the thought of “A child of Satan,” residing in her house. She was convinced it was her god given duty to evict and cast out all creatures in open rebellion against god.
Six months went by. The next semester of classes began. I got up, made coffee, read the paper, stepped out the door, walked over bus stop, waited, got on board, slid my card through the slot and took a seat. I spotted her on a seat directly opposite me. “So what have you been up to,” I asked. “I just moved in with a guy I met a few months ago,” she said. She informed me that he had offered he a place to stay, and she had found a low paying work-study position at the computer lab. I thought life finally started to work out for her.
Later that evening, I met her boyfriend on the bus. They walked hand in hand. Their faces were both expressionless, as if they returned from a funeral. A thick layer of stubble carpeted his face. A long black army trench coat with sown on Korn patches, draped over a black T-shirt that stretched across his pudgy frame. Oil seeped up from his scalp and coated his hair with a thin moist coating, which permeated the atmosphere with a dense musty smell. “How could she possibly live with this guy?” I thought. I shrugged it off, however, and thought to myself “Hey beauty is only skin deep,” maybe he is an OK guy? I was wrong.
A week later, I saw him talking to one of his friends on the bus. I swore they shopped at the same store, considering their identical fashion sense. I pondered which one it could be. The flee-market on Warwick Boulevard or the garage sale three blocks down. I started to wonder if the vagrant look was suddenly the new vogue.
They were both nudging each other, bragging about how much they drank, and how much pot and other drugs they used the previous weekend. I realized this was no laughing matter. She could be in serious danger.
A month passed. The clock struck eight. I scrambled out of play practice and stepped on board the bus. As I took my seat, I saw her rush toward the vehicle, just as the bus driver was pulling out. The driver hit the breaks. She stepped in, and took a seat next to me. She was crunched up. Her eyes were expressionless, but glaring. Her mouth remained at near stagnation with a slight quiver, pursing through every few seconds. “What’s wrong,” I asked
She told me that the guy often harassed her into strange sexual acts. ” He comes home drunk, throw things around the room, and beats me. One day, as we were fighting, he hurt my thigh. I have not been able to run or do anything physical for months. I will never forgive him for that,” she said. ” I want to go to the hospital but I don’t have insurance.”
She is still living with him today. I have told her she needs to pack up and get out. ” I keep telling him he can do better. I hope things get better” Her living arrangement has not improved, however, as the months and years have gone by. She now considers their arrangement purely surface ” I used to think that I loved him now I am not so sure” She says that once she graduates she hopes that she can earn enough to move away. She said her fiancee started to sense the lack of commitment toward him ” After a fight he yells I know why you’re staying with me. I know this is fake.”
Her expected graduation date was scheduled for last year. “I can’t make it passed algebra 2. No matter how many times I take it, I can’t pass the tests and I have to drop it,” she said. “I tried going to the math center. They try to help me, but I just can’t get it.” She said much of it stems stress and anxiety of her home life. “My grades have started decreasing in my other courses. The other day I received a zero on an exam for my computer class. I always pass those tests with flying colors, but my boyfriend kept me up all night. Luckily, he drops the lowest score”
Article Source: vdhair