TW//DOMESTIC VIOLENCE, ABUSE, RAPE

Some days, the oven clicks as I turn the handle, but quiets once I press on. Some days I even drop an egg or two onto the floor. Sometimes all the rags are dirty because it slipped my mind to clean them the day before. Every once and a while, I don’t feel like dressing up for work. The makeup, the hair, the dress, just to stay home. The kids don’t always behave. Although we feel like we have taught them well, they tend to act up. Although my life doesn’t go perfectly, I still believe I am the ideal wife. When the oven won’t turn on, I fix it myself or call a handyman so it is working in time for dinner. If I drop eggs and the rags are dirty, I scramble to find more. No matter how much I don’t want to, I always fix my hair into a neat top bun, smear makeup on my cheeks, and slip into a dress and apron. When the kids act up, I deal with it. It is my job. That's all I know. Right? 

It's a Monday morning. The sun begins to peek through the window. It shines a dark orange light onto the floral bed sheets and reflects into the mirror on the opposite wall. I rub them open, and shift to my back, staring at the ceiling. I hear the soft breath of my sleeping husband lying beside me. With a deep breath, I turn my legs to the floor and slide my feet into my slippers. The sun shines on my skin, creating a deep glow on my face. I tiptoe to the kitchen, in an attempt not to wake anybody. I turn on the gas, grab the pot beside it, and begin to boil water. As the water churns in the teapot, I go upstairs to quickly get ready. I throw my slippers off and slip on a dress that reaches just below my knees. It's purple, with black buttons up my chest and a small lavender ribbon lining my waist. I pull tights up my legs, and black high heels shape my feet. I hear the kettle make a high-pitched sound, so I plaster my face with makeup, throw my hair neatly up into a top bun, and step quietly down the stairs. 

I filter coffee beans into the boiling water, and pour the coffee into two separate cups. As I place the coffee on the counter, I hear slight footsteps from above. I recognize the footsteps as my husband. Our floor is creaky, creating an easy outlet to know who is about to walk downstairs before they appear at the top. Just then, I watch as he tumbles down the stairs. His hair is slicked back because of the strange way he slept, and his shirt is uneven with his shoulders. I spin back around and reach for the carton of milk on the kitchen counter, as I slowly pour it into one cup at a time. 

“Morning. Why isn’t the coffee ready?” he groans as he glances at the clock and slumps down the stairs onto the kitchen table chairs. He isn’t the best husband, but I took what I could get. He keeps me well-fed and healthy. He sometimes makes fun of me. My weight, what I am wearing. He hates the way I walk. In his eyes, I’m lesser than him. If I were to comment on that, I would be beaten. Most of the women around me agree as they believe that our jobs are to cook, clean, behave, let them talk first, and take care of the men and children. But sometimes a part of me wonders if that’s fair. Why is that my job? It has always been my dream to be an eighth-grade teacher, so why can’t I do that instead? When I help my children with homework, I feel like it is what I am supposed to do. I have no option, no opinion. So instead, I clear my throat, pick up the coffee, and spin around with a smile on my face.

“Good morning. Here.” I set down the coffee on the table in front of him as I sip on my own. I watch him pick up a paper from the table, shuffle through it, and nod when he finds something to read. I set the table for breakfast before the kids woke up. Plates, napkins, forks, and cups for orange juice. I proceed to breakfast. After a few minutes, he sighs and stands up from the table, leaving his empty cup and newspaper sprawled across the table. He walks up the stairs as I walk over to the table and clean up. I think as I cook breakfast. I don’t always understand why this has to be me cleaning up his mess. Every one and a while he could fold up the magazine, or put his cup in the sink. Maybe even do his laundry. These thoughts flood my head, and like it is programmed, four plates sit on the table each with two sunny-side-up eggs, toast, and bacon. Three cups are filled with orange juice, and two with more coffee. I scurry upstairs and get the kids ready for school before the food gets cold. Ten minutes later, all three of the children are dressed and eating. I hear the creaking floorboards twist as my husband frantically runs to each side of the room upstairs. 

“Honey?” I hear him yell, “I’m late. Where is my suit jacket?” he yells. I glance at the clock. He is late. The last time he was late he threw his briefcase at me. I was knocked over and hit my head on the kitchen counter. 

“All done!” The kids yell. 

“One second.” I quietly shout upstairs. The kids stand up one by one and grab their backpacks from the nearby hangers. We live within walking distance from school, so I give them each a kiss on the forehead, as they leave the house with a smile. 

I turn towards the stairs to see him staring down at me. His expression is deep, unsteady, and terrifying. I quietly gasp, trying not to show too much fear. He swallows hard and presses his lips together tightly. I’ve seen that expression before. I know exactly what it means, he's pissed. I take a deep breath. Stay calm. This isn’t like last time, or the time before, or the time before. He won’t hurt you, he's just upset. 

“What's the problem?” My voice trembles at the word problem. 

“First, my coffee isn’t ready. Then, my suit jackets aren’t clean or ready.” He slowly steps down the stairs as he talks. I swing my head to the lines outside, where I see his suit jackets, wet, and unfinished. I suck in a breath, as he walks towards me. 

“I have no time to eat breakfast,” his voice becomes louder and closer, “because you didn’t go fast enough. And now, I am late!” He's screaming at me now. The screams are the background music to my thoughts. Why does this happen to me? I am trying my best, and I am still a human. I zone out in his eyes, filled with so much anger. Before I know, I am pushed back up against the chair, as he towers over me. He goes quiet, as he finishes. I suck in a deep breath

“I don’t really care.” 

His eyes widened. I curl my lips. His jaw clenches. I gasp for air. 

“You what?” He replies. I stay quiet. “YOU WHAT?” His voice is loud. A tear drags down my cheek, as I look down. He picks up the plate from the table next to me, and slams it, hard against the wall. I flinch as it shatters against the floor. I feel a pinch on my left leg, and wince, finding blood begin to drip from a piece of the plate sticking out. Without a word, he turns around and walks out the door. I hear him mumble, under his breath as he leaves. I’m stunned. I stand there, unsure of what to do next. 

I can’t find the first aid kit. I sob. Yes, he's hurt me before, but it's been different. I never talked back, who knows what he will do next? I don’t deserve this. I close my eyes and wish to be 75 years in the future. It will be better then. I won’t have to cook or clean. I will be equal to men. I can be a teacher. I open my eyes, shake off the tears, and keep searching for the first aid kit buried somewhere in my closet. The tears flood my eyes, and I can’t see. Through the water, I see a red box in the corner of the closet. I grab it in celebration and sit on the bed with my leg facing up in an attempt to not ruin the sheets. I wiped my eyes, to find I didn’t grab a first aid kit, but a red shoe box. I sniffle, as I wipe the dust off the box. I grab from the side and lift the lid curious as to what's inside. A beautiful pair of red high heels stared back at me. I’ve never seen them before. I turn my head and lift them out of the box. They are a really gorgeous pair of shoes. They sparkle from the lights and are so shiny I can see the reflection of my face. I reach down and take off the shoes I currently have on. I slide the red shoes onto my feet one by one and then stand to look in the mirror. As I stand, I lose balance. I am shoved back onto the bed. I try to stand again. I fall back. I see movement to my left and quickly glance over. The walls are changing. They shift from a dark orange color to a soft white color. It almost looks as though there is an invisible painter, painting the walls as I watch. The ceiling begins to change, and the lights begin to shift to something more modern. My bed becomes softer underneath me, and the mirror becomes clean and bright. The windows change shape, and the curtain changes color. I began to feel exhausted. The bed becomes even more comfortable. I yawn, as I feel a force pulling my arm down. I close my eyes until I am fully submerged in the bed.

I feel another tug on my arm. I blink my eyes open and find myself staring at none other than my husband, smiling. He looks a little different. His hair is neater, and his facial hair is nicely shaved. His eyes are brighter. He slowly starts to lean towards me and kisses me on the forehead. 

“You have to get up for work.” He says. 

I scoff. 

“What? It's almost 7:30, you four need to go to school,” he replies.

“Four? You mean three, the kids.”

He looks confused. “No, I mean you have to go to work, which is the same place the kids go to school. Are you half asleep?” He laughs. 

My eyes widened. “What's the date?”

“December 1st. Friday. We have dinner tonight, remember? Your work dinner”

“Year?”

He shakes his head in disbelief that I am even asking that type of question. “2022?” 

I try to hide my shock, and slowly nod my head and turn towards the ceiling. He shakes off his confusion. 

“I’ll wake the kids and meet you downstairs.” I continue to stare at the ceiling. I reach down to my left leg and feel for a cut. Nothing. I turn over, and when I slip on my slippers, I notice a new pair. They are bright pink and soft. I slide my feet in and groan with happiness. I hear chatter downstairs already, as I slowly step down the stairs. They don’t creak. My husband looks up and smiles at me as I step down the stairs.

“Coffee?” He smiles. 

“Yes, of course.” I begin to walk to the kitchen to prepare his coffee, as I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn, as he holds out a cup of warm coffee for me to drink. The corners of my mouth upturn, as I take the coffee into my hands, and take a sip. 

“Thanks. What do you guys want for breakfast?” I turn to my kids. They begin to yell different breakfast items at me. I nod and turn towards the kitchen to begin.

“Bye honey.” my husband exclaims.

“Are you leaving?” I glance at the table. His coffee mug and newspaper lies on the table.

“I always leave at this time. See you guys later. Love you.” I look back at the table. Interesting. I’m still making breakfast, and cleaning up after him, and my children. Yes, he was much more polite and sweet, but is this still the stereotype? I shake it off, and make breakfast for the three kids. They eat, I ask them to clean up, and they ignore me. I quickly get dressed, and before I know we are out the door and into the car. I drive down the street to the school and park in the spot labeled with my last name. Unsure of what to do next, I sigh and glance at my children in the mirror. One of the boys stares down at a phone, while the other peers over his shoulder. I shift and look at my daughter. She sits with one of her legs up towards her chest. She has a green shirt on, and a pair of blue jeans that wrap tightly around her little legs.

“Okay, kids. Let's go” I say. 

I watch the two boys scurry out of the car, and run over to a group of boys standing about ten feet away. My daughter sighs, and unbuckles her seatbelt. I can tell something is wrong, but I don’t ask. 

“Bye Mom” She says, “Love you.”

I smile and step out of the car at the same time as her. Our doors slam in sync as she grips her backpack and walks away. I watch as she sees a group of boys, and puts her head down. The boys whisper, laugh, and mock her as she walks by. It's subtle, but it happened. I make a mental note to ask what happened after school. I begin to walk towards the teacher's entrance until I hear a sliding on the concrete. I turn to my side, and see a teacher, tall and handsome, standing next to me. He looks me once up and down, and smirks. I looked down at myself, wondering if there was something on my shirt or my pants. When I look up, he is still staring. He winks at me.

“See you tonight.” 

 He continues walking. I shake my head in disgust and shock. We are in 2022, why am I still getting those looks, those eyes? I look back down at my outfit and look around me. The parking lot has cleared, and the only sounds are my breathing and the sound of his footsteps walking away. I am wearing a tight purple skirt that reaches to my knees, and a white collared shirt tucked into my skirt. I make another mental note to wear pants tomorrow. This is something that would happen 75 years ago, but maybe with a whistle instead of a wink. A coincidence, I tell myself.

The day proceeds, and I live out my teaching dream. It feels different talking to an 8th grader than it does to an adult. It feels like it is what I was made to do. Throughout the day, I notice myself watching over the children as they talk and walk. The girls walk in groups of friends. They wear jeans, up to their waist, and shirts above their stomachs. Some shirts are pink, while others are light blue. Those wearing dark colors stay in the same areas, and they rarely mix. Boys snicker, girls giggle. I try to spot any form of inequality on the school grounds, but I can’t seem to find it. I wonder what changed, and what happened in that time. If I was standing here 75 years ago, it would be different. Girls staying quiet, boys running, mocking. I look at the people with their noses stuck in their phones. Their eyes glaze over what could be anything. It makes me wonder what kind of things happen on the phone. If a man is looking at me like that in person, what are the things people are saying to others online? 

Throughout my day I continue to experience stereotypes within the classroom. Like the boys being stronger, or the girls not being able to play sports. It's accidental, no one means any harm, but it happens. The same stereotypes that took place 75 years ago are still happening today. It's devastating for me, but also real.

The final bell of the day rings, and my students flood out of the classroom, except for one girl. She has long brown hair that reaches down her back, and freckles lining her arms. She grips her books tightly, as she slowly waits for her fellow students to leave the classroom. She trails up to my desk and sets her books down on my desk.

“I need your help.” Her tone is serious. Almost frightening. 

“How can I help you?” I reply. 

“I’m being harassed online. I don’t know what to do, or who to tell. I figured you could help.” I think back to past conversations I may have had in class with my students, that implied her to come to me to ask. I know what I would say 75 years ago, but I don’t know anything about phones. The girl proceeds to tell me about a boy, 2 years older than her, harassing her online every day. He asks to meet up, and when she says no, he curses at her. He calls her awful names. He asks for pictures of her, and when she says no, he screams at her. He threatens to kill her, to kill her family. She’s terrified. She cries to me, her tears landing on my desk. I don’t know what to do. I talk to her and try to console her, telling her I understand. I tell her the story of this morning, with the male teacher in the parking lot. I give her advice on what she can do to prevent this from ever happening again. She takes the advice. 75 years ago, I would never have to help a 14-year-old girl calm down because she is being taken advantage of. Maybe a 30-year-old housewife, but never a 14-year-old girl. Phones must have massively affected sexism, and it's hard to see until you are experiencing it. 

I get into the car and wait for my kids. The two boys file in after about 5 minutes. We wait for another 5, then 10, then 20. My daughter hasn’t gotten in the car yet, so I begin to worry. About 5 minutes later, I saw her walking to the car. I can’t see her face, as her hood is covering her features and hair. She walks with her head down, and her phone in her hand. I watch her pick up the phone, hold it up to her face, read something, and then shove it into her back pocket. That is when it clicks. It seems as though online it is such a prevalent thing for girls to be harassed. When she gets in the car, her mascara is smudged, she doesn’t say anything, she just looks at me. I give a knowing nod and start the car. She knows I understand. 

It's about 7:30 PM. I hear the children downstairs laughing with a babysitter, as I zip up my dress. My husband promised he would come to my work dinner tonight until he was sick all day in bed. I knew this meant I had to go alone because I couldn’t cancel so close. I sigh in defeat, as I am not looking forward to this at all. I open my phone and go onto Google Maps. The restaurant is in a sketchy part of town. Before I leave, I run to the top of my closet, grab the shoe box with the red shoes, and stuff them into my bag, just in case. I throw on a pair of purple heels and head out the door. The drive is about 30 minutes. The whole ride I think about my daughter. How am I supposed to help her? Do I even confront her about it? It's all a confusing game. My thoughts fill the car ride until I arrive at the restaurant. I valet my car and walk into the restaurant. I didn’t realize how big of an event it was. Teachers with their dates, left and right. I began to feel lonely, as my husband was home sick. I shuffle through the crowd of people to use the bathroom in the back. There is a small hallway leading to the women's restroom. The men's bathroom sits down in a connecting hallway. The hallway is quiet and dark. As I enter the dark hallway, I feel a person grabbing my arm. I turn around quickly to see the handsome man from the parking lot.

He doesn’t say anything. He begins to get closer to me. As if I blinked, my back was pressed against the wall. His breath reeks of vodka. 

“I’m married” I whisper, “Happily. Get off of me.” 

He shakes his head. My heart jumps. I prepare myself. If this is the moment I get raped, then this is the moment. But might as well try to resist. His hand trails my leg.

“Stop. Stop.” My voice becomes louder and louder as I continue to yell. His hand doesn’t stop. My bag is on the ground next to me. As his hand trails, I slowly use the back of my foot to kick off my heels. I carefully slip my feet into my bag, and tip over my bag causing the red heels to spill out. I slip my feet in and feel dizzy immediately. My head spins, but the hand stays there. The stink of alcohol refuses to leave. The closeness of an unknown man stays. The walls change. The floor changes from underneath me. I wait for the man to disappear, but he doesn’t. His scent changes. I recognize the scent of my husband. The floor creaks under me. The hand still slowly trails. Tears drip from my eyes landing on the wooden floor of my old creaky house.

“Please. Stop.” My husband doesn’t say anything. I slide out from under his arm on the wall, and sit on the bed, tears streaming. He shakes his head, grabs his coat, and leaves the room. The door slams behind him. I flinch at the sound. 

I weigh the pros and cons. Pros, I’m a teacher. I get to live out my dream job. Cons, not much has changed, and not only am I dealing with it, but the younger girls are too. I think about all the men who also get villainized because of their gender, but are extremely good people. I hurt for the men, and I hurt for the women. If we assume things will change automatically, they never will. With tears in my eyes, and blood dripping from my left leg, my heart throbs. I throw the shoes into the fire and watch them slowly burn.