Early 1990s, Seattle, Washington

By Sheren Lee

The last time I saw my husband, he was holding a running, portable power drill inches from my head hissing, “Do you know how easy it would be for me to run this through your skull?”

I knew. As he pulled away, I ran to the baby’s room and grabbed our daughter, escaping to my little blue car. I drove as fast as I could across the west side of Seattle to a co-worker’s house. She knew this might happen.

I met David through an ad I wrote. I described myself as articulate, feisty, petite, and fun. He responded as a former New Yorker, now living in Seattle. Sitting at the Thai restaurant, David walked in: tall, dark and handsome. He was intelligent, articulate, funny. His New York City roots were obvious with his sense of humor and play on words. I was charmed.

Hidden behind his charm was a dark creature, a man of cruel intentions, cold and calculating, proud of his lack of feeling. I had never met a sociopath before, but now I had married one.

Slowly, the charade wore off. By then I was pregnant with our daughter, Aileen. She had been named after David’s mother, by Jewish tradition to name a child after a deceased relative. I had an inkling that things were to change when she was born; David had increasingly become rough and verbally abusive. I was a confident woman, a professional, yet, when David began his verbal assaults, I submitted like a little child.

“You made lamb tonight, not beef! You’re incompetent, you’re stupid! I won’t eat crap like this!” as he’d storm from the kitchen, slamming plates onto the table, and shattering glass with frightening speed. I quivered in the corner; I was pregnant. I needed a home for my child, and a father for her, so I tried to calm the storm.

In my head I knew what he said wasn’t true, yet, my emotions ran counter-intuitive. How could I have been lured into this web of cruelty and deceit? David would spend hours in the bathroom, gazing into the mirror, imitating emotions – emotions he did not have. He was literally a genius, and he wanted to be sure that, although he did not feel them, he gave the appearance he understood those feelings. I was embarrassed, ashamed, and too proud to tell anyone. I held my pain and sorrow inside, only hoping that the birth of Aileen would change it all.

It did. The night labor began I awakened David and pleaded for him to drive me to the hospital. I called the doctor, and David screamed at me to get a cab. I was frantic. The contractions were strong, and I was afraid, alone. David gruffly agreed to drive me. In scared silence I clung to the sides of the passenger seat as each contraction came heavier. My mind swirled with fears and thoughts of danger; my escape was the hospital.

As the medical crew rushed me to the emergency room for the C-section, I succumbed to the numbing of my mind and body with the curtain suspended in front of me so that I couldn’t see the cuts into my womb. Aileen cried with awareness as she was lifted from my body. I could see her washed by the nurse, and noticed her birthmark on the side of her little head. I recalled that a birthmark was sometimes called a “kiss from God.” Oh, how I hoped that God did indeed bless her, for I felt far left behind.

Seventeen months later, as I kneeled on the living room carpet changing Aileen’s diapers, David stomped into the living room. Anger and hatred were natural to him, and even my caring for our child elicited cruel actions. Grabbing a large apple in our small fruit tray on the coffee table, David hurled the apple until it burst onto my thigh, leaving a huge wound that turned many hues of black, blue, pink, and purple. The explosion had missed Aileen by inches.

By now, I realized I must leave, but David had cut me off from all family and friends. He had cunningly managed to cut my ties to the outside world. My only world now was one of craziness, cruelty, and pain. I reeled in my dizziness. I protected Aileen and fell into a deep sleep with her in my arms. I needed rest. The next morning my black and blue thigh throbbed, yet I had the awareness to photograph it. I knew with David’s sociopathic nature, charming to the outside world, and cruel in ours, I had to document this act of violence.

The time had come. I had no choice. I had to leave. A few days after the hurled apple, I finally relayed the horrors of my life. The bruise on my thigh was the turning point. I had nightmares of Aileen with a mangled body, welts covering her. David had not yet harmed her, but I knew it was only a matter of time. With shame and guilt, I revealed my dirty secret to my co-worker. She, in turn, told the others of our department, fortunately, a department that already existed to help those in need. Now I was in need.

A plan was put in place, a fund set up, a meeting with a divorce lawyer arranged. I couldn’t do it alone. My once strong and confident demeanor was replaced by a scared, helpless shadow. And they understood; they helped me. For the first time in two years, I held hope that I might survive.

Two days later, David, while hanging a painting on the wall, grasped the portable power drill as I sat in the nearby chair and pointed it directly toward the side of my head. His hissing, “Do you know how easy it would be for me to run this through your skull?” and chortling at my fear, made the decision final. I knew that if I survived this last assault, Aileen and I were gone.

Screeching into my co-worker’s driveway, we began to follow “the plan.” While David was at work, the department entered our house and carried one carload of clothes and toys to my car. Aileen and I were given money and hope. As I drove our little over-filled car toward our safe haven in Arizona, unknown to David, I began to breathe a little. It was the end of one life, and the beginning of another. I had held my breath for years; with relief I inhaled the desert air.

It was hot and dry, but full of new life – ours.

Sheren Lee has a B.A. in Communications and an M.S.W. from SUNY/Buffalo, and now resides happily in California with her 17-year-old daughter. She is using a pseudonym.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Monday, February 19th, 2007 | Email This Post

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