𝖌𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖉 𝖉𝖔𝖌

Forget talking stages. What about stalking stages??

looking out the window at the orange sunset, stepping away to calmly call them. leaving out the details of our fight, saying how much she needs them. being met with an urgent, "just give her some space, i'll take care of her." their footsteps crunching through the snow before the line disconnects.

going out of my way to be a considerate host for the night- pouring a glass of white wine for the both of them, lighting her favorite candles, draping a blanket over the sofa. demonstrating acts of service to make up for my lack of emotional vulnerability. apologizing over and over for hurting her feelings. her hand rubbing down my forearm on the open wound her nails bore into me. hey...thank you for letting her come over...

the heavy creaking of wood on our porchsteps interrupting the silence between us. my smile not reaching my eyes, giving her a quick peck on the lips, letting them graze against her ear. if "better" wants to save you, i'll let them.

turning away after tauntingly smacking her face, fingers dropping to her shoulders. ignoring the same voice that got us to where we're at now, attempting to defend herself. turning away to unplug the lamp on my way out- the final touch to a romantic evening between two people, finally able to resolve their tension without the problem present.

opening the bedroom door, only to be met with a set of worried eyes staring past me. them. an elbow brushing my arm, a duffel bag dropping to the carpet. their questions of concern fading into silence as i lean against the porch railing. watching my breath droplets dissipate with the snowfall. cigarette smoke inflating my lungs and coating onto my jacket- the only thing i allow to latch onto me. the singular parking lot lamp post flickering orange, illuminating my shaky fingers as i grip the empty carton.

stumbling inside to grab our shared pack from the counter, to a pitch black apartment. the stove clock flashing 2:28 AM to my left. rnb music and slight tapping on the wall to my right. red lighting from her bedroom flooding a narrow section of the hallway. the tapping sound getting louder the closer i get to the partially open doorway. the smell of sweat stifling the air, mixed with faint, muffled moans. standing there, watching the very scenario i mentally prepared for months ago.

quietly flipping the now-crumpled carton lid and pinching the cigarette between my fingers- careful not to make a sound. pursing it between my lips before stepping inside. finding myself standing at the edge of the bed to get a closer look at her closed eyes and long hair sticking to her forehead. their face nuzzled against her neck- covered in dark bruises. hypnotized by the slow and unmistakable movement under the blanket. tension in my body rising as the music continues to swell...

...only to feel almost weightless as i sit on her vanity chair, noticing the lamp bulb facing the wall. purposefully keeping them hidden. reaching over, twisting the light in their direction. leaning back and lighting my last cigarette.

watching her eyes shoot open while she sits up, them still pressed close to her sweaty chest. her head whipping in my direction– theirs locked on hers, hers glued on mine. the chair now positioned in front of the door. her breathing catching as she scans the dim room, her gaze fixated on the blinking LEDS of the lightbulb, snapping to the door. my fingers clicking the lock into place. terror etched onto her face, my heart pounding as the nails that dug into my arms hours ago now burrow into the skin of her lover.

Enas is not just a sad story, but a powerful example of a mother who is broken inside yet still standing for the sake of her children. May God have mercy on her husband, protect her children, heal her heart, and send her the help and relief she desperately needs.

Please consider donating to support her during this painful time. Every contribution, no matter how small, can make a real difference in the life of this mother and her orphaned children.

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