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Sometimes, I wondered when I’d finally break loose from this vicious cycle of abuse. It usually happens in four stages.

He’d get angry over a slight issue and beat my brains out. I would refuse to respond to his texts nor pick his calls. He’d come over to my apartment with a banquet of flowers promising and begging never to lay a finger on me. And then, I’d accept him.

I couldn’t let go of him. Atleast, not now. Not when he was paying for my mother’s treatment which I couldn’t afford.

“Fucking slut!” He cursed. I have never been shot or stabbed before but the insults that spewed from Jake’s lips—each time we had a disagreement, usually gave me a good idea on how either of those would feel.

“No, you don’t get—” I tried to explain to him before he cut me off.

“You probably think I’m dumb!” He barked, his blue eyes smouldering with anger, burning brighter than ever.

“He only asked if I was the waitress he saw the other day—”

“Then you started smiling at him . . .” He trailed off, running his finger through his dishevelled jet black hair.

“It was just a friendly smile,” I defended, shrugging my shoulders tiredly. Before I knew it, his coarse palm collided with my delicate cheeks violently, the force jerking my face in another direction. I held my cheeks, staring at the tiles.

“The fact that you fucking little bitch think you can challenge me after I’ve caught you in your promiscuous ways is appalling.” He said, walking towards me and I began to move backwards in fear until I had gotten to the end of the wall.

He held my neck tightly, strangling it. I could feel life squeezing out of me as I struggled to croak out words of plea, hoping he’d listen to me.

“Look at the way he was smiling. . . looking at you lustfully and you were letting him stare at you.” He enunciated every syllable when he got to ‘lustfully’ and tears streamed down my cheeks.

“P—please,” I croaked out.

Thankfully, he let go of me.

I took in ragged breaths and coughed. Soon, he held my arm and his lucid eyes formed into a contrite expression and he started uttering his usual words of apology. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” He scratched the back of his neck then ran his fingers through his hair. I averted my gaze and wiggled my arm from his hold.

“Please, I’m sorry baby.”

“For what?” I asked, and touched my aching throat.

“I’ll just let you calm down but come to the room when you’re ready to talk.” He said calmly, before heading towards his room.

I wondered how long I’d continue like this with him and if his case was a mental illness. Ofcourse, I’d leave him after he has finished paying for Mom’s treatment or when I no longer need his financial support. Even though I held on to him because of the financial support I got from him, I was worried about the girl that would date him after me. She would go through hell; nobody deserved that.