I am reposting from http://perspectiveandcoke.wordpress.com/2012/11/01/my-truth/
I sit in the same room.
I look around and I see the images in my head.
Actually, I don’t.
I don’t see images. I recognize the blows.
I see the mirror across the room, and how he pinned me against the wall next to it, and how I hit him with a baby powder bottle, because that was all that was close.
I sit on the bed and I remember the kicks to my belly and my back. The ones that left livid red marks, which have just started fading away. I remember him watching me curl up and cry because his shoes has hit a rib, and I could not get up.
I remember him on top on me, choking me, and me ripping off his shirt, his chain, anything, just to breathe again.
How did it start?
Because I refused to leave the room. I refused to make tea for him. (I had cooked an anniversary dinner the night before, candlelight and all, and I thought I did not have to make the tea, just me being lazy).
He tore the newspaper and I threw it back at him.
And he slapped me.
He slapped me because I threw a newspaper at him.
And I did not know what to say. In my head I was screaming “Get out. Get out now”.
I got up and told him to leave my house, and went and sat on a chair across the room. And cried.
Me: Get out of my house.
He came and towered on top on me. (He’s 40 kgs. heavier, and about ten inches taller.) So yes, towered.
I shouted –“Get out of my house.”
He pushed me back in the chair, and there was the hand around my neck. I cannot breathe. And another slap. My lip was cut open, and bleeding.
I try to get up, kick out, anything to get that hand off. Finally I do. And he pins me against the wall. Next to the mirror, I can’t reach him, my hands don’t do any damage, I cannot breathe. I hit him with a powder bottle. He’s repeating “You bitch. You slut”. There is powder all over the room.
He says “Are you sure this is over now? Are you sure?.
I shout: YES. Get out.
Him: It’s not. You owe me money bitch. Give me ten grand. Right now. Why don’t you have it, you bitch?
I try to run past him and he pushes me across the room, onto the bed. I try to hit his legs, and he kicks me. In the belly. I curl up and start shouting for help. My roommate’s younger sister is in the next room. She cannot hear me yet.
He says: “Really _____, you want to do this now?” and kicks me again. And more choking. I blindly reach my hand out and grab the rubber exercise thing and lash out. It hits him on the legs. And the plastic handle flies out. Still, his hands, around my neck. I grab his shirt and it rips. The chain around his neck breaks.
Finally he lets me go.
I grab his bag and run to throw it out of the house. I’m screaming Get out. GET OUT.
He follows me out in the hall, and is enraged that I dared to touch his stuff.
Pushes me down on the ground and kicks me some more. I pick up the ceramic bowl (my cat’s drinking bowl) and hurl it in the air. Misses him by miles.
Him: You want to go file a police complaint now? You want to complain?
I yell: YES.
And he pushes me down again.
The roommate is terrified and is calling her sister for help.
I run out of the house, because he won’t leave.
I throw his bag down the stairs, and he pins me against another wall. His hands are so big. I cannot breathe. I cannot breathe.
My neck is paining and my whole body hurts.
And then he tries to push me down the stairs.
I cling to the banisters, and shout for help. The neighbours come out.
I run to the house and he tries to enter behind me. I bolt the outer door.
The neighbors tell him to leave.
And finally , he does.
(PS: He fell down two days before this, in the bathroom. That is the big bruise on the arm. I put ice and boroline on it, and fed him because his hand hurt. I’m that stupid)
Also, the “him” in the above description is Nikhil Kumar Verma. His twitter handle is @inkv. He’s working in Mumbai as a Brand Partner for BBH India.