A New Game Plan

I looked at myself in the mirror; I looked like death eating on a cookie.  My mascara had run all over my face, my hair was in knots, and I had handprints on my neck.  My scrawny little neck.  But that was a good thing because my neck was so thin apparently, Mike's hands wrapped all the way around my neck.  Most of the bruising that looked like finger marks were pretty far back, I could hide them under my hair, but I did have a mark on the front of my neck that looked more like an abrasion, kind of mottled looking, like dotted broken blood vessels.  Makeup wasn't covering it.  I used my fingernails to scratch my neck, over and over.  Okay, so now it looked like scratches and irritated skin.  A bug bite?  I was going for that.  In the artificial light inside the house, it may work, but I would have to lay low for a few days.  It actually worked.

The abuser didn't call me for a couple of days.  When he did, I just hung up the phone and left it off the hook for hours.  After a couple of days passed, I finally answered the phone and talked to him.  He was apologetic, but he put the blame on me.  I made him do it; I made him go crazy.  No, not really, he was crazy; he had what they call now explosive anger.  I just seemed to be the only person that was the target of it.  I told him he needed to come by the house when my mom was home and pick up his rings, that I would put them in a bigger box and put the box in a bag and leave it on the stereo.  He was to knock on the door and tell my mom to hand him the bag and leave.  And then I hung up.

I was going to start back to work the following week.  I called the employment director that I had worked for, and she said she would be more than happy to take me back.  I would be working full time, and that would keep me away from Mike.  And that was a good thing.

After a few days had passed, there was a knock at the door one night.  It was from Mike.  My mom started to let him in.  I told her to give him the bag on the stereo because he had to leave.  I told her he was in a hurry.  I went back to my room.  I didn't hear the door shut.  I peeked out of my bedroom door and saw my mom and Mike talking.  He was crying.  Well, crap.  I didn't feel sorry for him, but she did.  She was walking toward my room.  I jumped over to my bed, with my back turned towards the door.  She wanted me to go out and talk to him.  Nope, I wasn't going to do it.  I told her no several times.  I told her she was wasting her time, make him leave.  It was a while before I heard the front door close.

After Mike left, my mom came knocking on my bedroom door.  I didn't want an altercation with her.  I could have stopped all of this drama with one phone call to my uncle.  I could have called him and told him what Mike had done, but honestly, he would have killed Mike.  He was married and had a little girl now, and I just couldn't let him ruin his life.  Not for me.  I could never tell him what happened.  So, here she was in my room pleading Mike's case.  Poor Mike.  He loved me so much; I was so cruel to him.  All he wanted to do was get married and be happy.  No. all he wanted to do was control me and kill me if I didn't play his game.  What he needed was a shrink, not a wife.  Maybe a padded room and a suit with no armholes.  "I'm through talking, Mom."

I hadn't even turned 18 yet, and I already hated my life.  I wanted an escape; I wanted to get away from home and get away from Mike.  What I should have done, and I regret not doing it so much, was get in my car and drive to Dumfries, Virginia, and throw myself at the mercy of David.  But he would have killed Mike too if he was physically able, and if not, he had motorcycle buddies that would have done it for him.  At the very least, that would have beat the meanness out of him.  Stupid idea, nope, couldn't do it.  I could have called his Commanding Officer, but I didn't think about that.  Too bad, Lieutenant Peter Pace, who in later years would become General Peter Pace and one of George Bush's cronies, would have whipped him into shape.  But it would have ruined his career, and he would never have been selected to be a guard at Camp David, the Presidential retreat.

Men were already starting to become a pain in the gluteus maximus. Why were so many of them jerks?  I was starting to see it in other guys too.  Was it just the guys who had been in Vietnam?  Were they all tainted?  We didn't know about PTSD back then; it didn't exist until long after Vietnam, as least as far as the government was concerned.  Why would killing the enemy, men, women, and children affect anyone?  Why would fighting in hand to hand combat or killing someone at close range with a bayonet leave even the slightest scar on the psyche of anyone?  How about carrying your wounded friend to a helicopter and having one of the other litter bearers step on a land mine and blow your friend and everyone but you to smithereens? Would that cause any bad dreams?  Pretty much, all of the guys close to my age had either been in the military or still were, so I just assumed it was the species.  All men were crazy—at least all of the young ones.

I went back to work, and I was assigned to work in the jewelry department.  The jewelry counter was at the very front of the store leading out into Iverson Mall.  When I wasn't busy, I could look out and see all of the action at that end of the mall.  I was a people watcher anyway, so that was right up my alley.  I was the only young girl working in that department.  The rest were all cranky, craggy, haggie, nosey older than middle-aged women.  I had nothing in common with them.  They had grown kids and grandkids.  I could hear them talking about me sometimes; they didn't like my short dresses, they didn't like my shoes, they didn't like my hair, they just didn't like me.  Too bad.  They really didn't like when young guys were looking for a gift for their girl, guess who they would come to?  Or couples looking for engagement rings?  They had all of the older customers looking for little cheap jewelry.  We were paid a commission, so I was doing pretty well.  I put that money into clothes for myself.  It seemed to be working out.

I was bending down to unload new stock one day at work,  When I stood up, I came face to face with Mike.  Crap!  You can run, but you can't hide, I guess that is true.  He wanted to talk.  I told him to go away.  He wouldn't.  He went to one of the other ladies and asked to speak to the manager.  She was young, just a few years older than me.  He told her I refused to wait on him.  She apologized and told him someone else would help him.  Then she called me back into her office, which was just the next counter over.  She asked me what was going on and I told her about him.  She called security.  One of the security detectives was a young woman also, and a friend.  She and her partner worked as plainclothes security.  They went up to Mike and asked him if he needed any help.  He said no.  They asked him if he was going to buy anything and he said no.  They told him he couldn't hang out at the jewelry counter because it was a high-security area, and they would appreciate it if he would just leave the store.  He turned around and walked out the door.  He sat on a bench outside the store for a long time.  I guess he thought that I had to leave out that door.  Wrong!  Employees had a private entrance and exit we had to use, and it didn't empty into the mall.  It was connected to the parking area.  At six o'clock, I hurriedly left and drove home.  Alone.  What was I going to do?  I didn't feel safe anywhere.