The first time I left my abuser, I left right after school. I just didn't come home.
After third period the following day I found him at my locker. My apology letter was already written. I left school with him on the spot, and I was never able to explain to my friends what had happened.
The second time I left, I didn't leave at all. I never believed that he would kill himself that night, but it's hard to turn your back on someone with a fistfull of poison in his mouth, even if you hate him.
Those were the early days, when I thought, "I can go another day."
I didn't storm out the door. I didn't sneak away in the night either. Instead, I waited.
I waited for the interrogations to slow down. I waited for him to stop following me to work. I waited for him to make a mistake.
I waited weeks, months, more than a year.
Weeks and months of watching my step. Months and months of biting my tongue. Of cleaning up broken glass.
Finally, finally, he cheated.
I could have jumped for joy. I could have laughed with relief.
Instead, I gave him all that he wanted. I cried. I told him he had broken my heart. I packed my things, slowly. I took the dog, and I looked back, sadly, over my shoulder. He let me go. As if it were a normal breakup.
If I had screamed the words that were burning my heart, his hands would have been around my throat in an instant.
The breakup is the most dangerous part.