My amazing boyfriend returns home later that evening, while I'm playing my guitar. I don't even notice until he shouts, "AMBUR!"
I look at the clock - shit, it's 8:30! I was supposed to start supper an hour ago!
I race out of my study and into the kitchen, where he's waiting. "I- I'm so sorry," I sputter. "I lost track of time - babe, I'm so- AHH!"
His clenched fist collides with my jaw, sending my head whipping to the side. I stumblue, doubling over and clutching my jaw, when he pulls me up - by my hair. I yelp in pain, and he pushes me, my back hitting the counter with a crack.
"What the fuck, Ambur?!" He shouts. Tears well in my eyes; I know I deserve this, but it's painful nonetheless.
"I'm sorry..." I say weakly.
"A man is entitled to come home to dinner on the table after a long hard day at work!" He shouts, stepping closer. I flinch, and he grabs my wrist.
"Babe, I-" He doesn't give me time to finish. He starts taking off his belt, and I quake with fear.
"Please, not the belt!" I sob. "Please, babe, I'm sorry! I'm fucking sorry! Please, God, don't!"
He sits drags me into the living room, sitting on the couch. I struggle against him, trying to pull away.
"Please!" I cry. "It won't happen again! Don't beat me! Please, I'm sorry!"
"You were bad, and now you need to be punished," He growls. "This way, I know it won't happen again. Now, get over my knee."
"No! Please, no! I swear it won't happen again! You don't need to do this!"
"It will happen again if I don't don't do this, so get over my knee, now," He says, growing angrier.
"No!" I scream, and pull against his grip. He whips out his belt, smacking my arm, and I cry out in pain. Already I see a bruise forming, but I still struggle.
"Get. Over. My. Knee!" He shouts, whacking me with his belt each time. My arms, my legs, my torso.
"Get lost!" I scream, kicking him in his junk. His grips loosens considerably, and I pull away, running to the kitchen. I grab a knife from a drawer and turn as I see my boyfriend stumbling into the kitchen.
"Stay the hell back," I tell him, tears streaming down my face as I hold the knife out in front of me defensively. "I don't want to hurt you, but I will if I have to."
"You won't do shit," He says, stepping toward me, belt in hand.
I thrust the knife out. "I'm warning you," I say. "Don't make me do this."
