cricket
Squinting my eyes as the warm glow of the Christmas tree lights spread into star-like shapes, I glanced at the cricket bat leaning against the corner of the living room wall.
The warmth of his soft sienna brown skin pressed against my pale, pink body as he held me close, our legs and arms intertwined as we lay in our shared twin daybed in our studio loft Brooklyn apartment. Feelings of safety, comfort surrounding me. My first home away from home, he made me feel primally wanted and loved like never before.
Weekends spent cooking for me, bathing with me, holding me close in passion and in sleep. In the time of video stores, before Netflix, we’d rent 6 movies of a particular genre and nest ourselves in. I felt sated in all ways physical.
When I had pneumonia, he carried me to the bathroom when I couldn’t walk. He stayed awake to help me breathe when my lungs filled. He held my hand, fed me soup. He placed cool rags on my forehead and stomach. He told me I would be okay, reassuring me in ways my parents never had.
When I had to forcibly sign my mother into a psychiatric ward, he drove me to the police station to pick up my minor sister for me to guardian, and then held me tightly through that night. A year later, when that same sister had her stomach pumped after a suicide attempt, he held me tightly through that night.
From the elevated loft, I cowered against the corner wall, peeking through the wooden railing slats as he screamed out in rage, bashing the table with the wooden cricket bat, smashing lamps, and any object in his path. Wondering if I could run down the wooden steps, unlock the door and escape, I stayed frozen still and silent to not draw attention to myself.
When he grew quiet and still, I made my escape to a neighbor’s apartment, asking if I could stay over until he calmed down from an argument. They agreed to walk me back to pick up what I needed for classes the next day.
As I quickly packed my bag, avoiding eye contact with him, our acquaintances tried to engage him in small talk. But the ferocity in his eyes glaring at me silenced the room. For the first time, in front of witnesses, he screamed, “Get the fuck out of here you fucking whore! If you ever come back here, I’m going to knock your head off with this cricket bat!” Sobbing through my rigid body in shame, I ran out of the apartment. Walking back in shocked silence, my neighbors gave me their bed to sleep in that night.
I’d like to say that was the moment – seeing it through the eyes of outsiders – the moment where I left him. But it was actually three years later before I would sever the relationship. For months after that night, I slept in that twin daybed intertwined with him, holding him close, with the cricket bat leaning against the corner wall.