A Portrait of Domestic Abuse

I've never done this before, but I think the following content might need a trigger warning. It's a piece of fiction that clawed at my heart as I wrote it - nothing explicit in the writing, but its theme is domestic abuse.
      Well I think that was warning enough. On with the show..

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

          Angry barks in lieu of greeting, and cold, frosty silences while I try to make light-hearted conversation like I always do.

            Then, I become aloof - his unreasonable anger has always served its cause of pushing me away, but in this case it shoves me so hard that I’m on the ground. I pick myself up, of course, dust off my 3-day-old clothes (which receive another angry breath), retort sharply, and walk off haughtily. I don’t look or feel hurt, but I am.

           I don’t like conflict. I don’t.

           I’ve run far away in my mind even though I can still hear his infuriated anger. At least, I think I’ve run away.

           I try not to pay attention -every word taunts me, bruises my ego, and challenges me to come running back and flash angrily- and intentionally smoothen the crease between my eyebrows; I look and feel better, but I’m not.

          I don’t fucking like conflict. I don’t.

          Music, books, politics, friends, and school - I have a whole world to distract me, and it does. Life, as they say, goes on.

From: tumblr.com

         But then it halts altogether when I find myself lying on the floor, blood from somewhere trickling down my fingers - I pause, admiring the deep red, and almost remark about its beauty, when I catch his look.
       He’s angry - of course he is, that’s all he ever is - and I see it shining brightly in his eyes. Anger -along with that beautiful, bubbling laughter of his- is what brings him to life.

           I’m angry too - my anger is not as becoming, and not nearly as deep as his, but it satisfies him. He likes to see me angry; he likes me in conflict, and I’ve finally obliged.

       But I still don’t like conflict. I don’t.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thanks for reading :)