by Annie Duncan

Created on: October 28, 2009   Last Updated: October 29, 2009

With my head against the window, I could feel the vibrations of the train chugging along the tracks. I looked chilly outside, but the train was warm. Both my children sat across from me; my son, who was a blond-haired little three-year-old, and my daughter, with her curly brown hair, was five years old. Their toys they brought along were keeping them busy. They hadn't asked many questions over the past few weeks as they witnessed the teary good-byes from our friends.

All our belongings were on the train; three suitcases with clothes and one with their toys. That was all we had left in the world, besides the $80.00 in my wallet. My ex mother-in-law knew our destination and I was just praying that she wouldn't let him know. Hopefully, we will be far enough away so he won't bother us anymore. I still have the picture in my head as I looked back at myself in the mirror the first time he beat me up. I didn't recognize me. Both eyes were black, my top lip was swollen and almost touching my nose. My nose was swollen and dried blood was crusted in my hair. My shirt was ripped and I was partially exposed.

The last incident wasn't all that long ago. We lived in a secured apartment building, but all you had to do is wait long enough at the outside doors and someone would let you in. That is what he did. He knocked at the inside door when I was in the bathroom; I heard the knock and my heart went to my throat. I yelled out to the children but I was too late, they had opened the door and let in their father. I saw on his face it wasn't going to be a friendly visit. I sent the children to their room before he could take out his anger on them. He could be angry for any reason; most of them trivial, and it was always a guessing game to what I should apologize for so he wouldn't hit me. This time, it was for not answering the phone when he called that morning.

He pushed me to the ground. I tried to get up, but he stepped on me. I knew right away to go to the fetal position to prevent the least amount of pain. As he kicked at me, I tried to protect my head. He had boots on, and each kick increased with force as his anger escalated. I cried, I wasn't going to but the fear was too much for me. He got tired of kicking me and pulled me to my feet; he dragged me to the kids' room and told them to leave. I could see how scared they were and prayed that he would keep his attention on me. He did and then he left. It had been six long years of hell; I had tried leaving so many times,

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