I woke up confused about where I was. I had forgotten
that I got my ass whipped by my husband. My renection in
the mirror was a shock.
I put makeup on my neck and pulled my bangs over the
knot on my forehead.
When I got to the stage, the lights were unexpectedly
bright. ͳey were hot. When my makeup started running,
everyone there could tell I had been beaten. ͳey could see
the marks.
But everybody knew already, they didn’t need to see the
marks. ͳose comedians around the elevator and lobby told
everybody.
Everywhere I went, people would ask me, “You all right?
We heard you got beat. Are you okay? You need help?”
I told everyone I was good.
But I wasn’t good. I was in a bad way. All those people
there wanted to help, but I couldn’t receive their help. All I
could do was push them away, and then go back to the dude
that was abusing me.
Why?
I ask myself that a lot. I don’t know the answer. Maybe
because I didn’t want to be a quitter. I felt like it was my
mrst time making a commitment in front of God, and getting
married was a big deal to me. I’d never been baptized or
anything like that. So this was the biggest commitment that
I’d ever made in my life, and I didn’t want to be a quitter, I
wanted to mnd a way to make it work. I didn’t want to seem
like I just gave up.
ann
(Ann)
#1