The brain has an amazing ability to compartmentalise.
The good. The bad.
The person. The monster.
She looks in the mirror with swollen eyes from crying. Tears falling into the basin, washing away without a trace. ‘It doesn’t make sense’, she thinks to herself. Not understanding what was happening, she stays another day. Not questioning the hatred she’s becoming used to.
‘Keep praying’, the pastor says.
‘You’re not a member so we can’t intervene’, the church says.
But I’m dying here.
Doubting looks from friends.
Oh, how easily that label is appointed to someone. How easily the tide can turn and sides get chosen.
But you knew what he was doing.
We don’t believe you.
In three years my view of humanity, of people has changed. Now I believe that many hide a monster. And how sad that I’m not surprised anymore when I hear of the monster that came out to play his sick and revolting games. Where it was the person I knew that I loved.
How can we love the man and hate the monster and not leave when the monster is all we come to know?
Is it hope? That tomorrow the man might return and the monster be put away for good?
It’s hopeless and it becomes clearer as each day turns into another and the monster becomes stronger and more vile. The monster will not be put away once he tastes the power that domination and oppression brings. It’s then that you realise that love for the man is gone. The fear for the monster has taken its place and there is nowhere else to turn. You either look it in its eyes and say, “no more”, or you will die as it eats away at your very soul. Bite by bite.
Walking away is hard to do, but only when staying becomes impossible. Not everyone is given the opportunity to leave. Not everyone sees in time the monster that the man has become. Not everyone survives. But I did. I saw.
The world doesn’t, except for a few who have dealt with the same monster. Who sees the threats behind the eyes and the vitriol behind charming words. Their paths have led them to the same place. And it’s a sorrowful story that survivors seldom come out without scars. Some seen. Mostly unseen and in secret.
But we know.