roses with thorns.
“Get the fuck on the floor.”
“How am i supposed to go back to work like this?”
“Bitch, I said get on the floor.”
Medina loved 6ft tall boys through the trauma of their childhoods for years and unfortunately her volunteer work did more harm than good, with her resilience serving as fuel for the monsters disguised as men. Because she was not easily knocked down, J decided to knock her out completely. She will wear the black eyes as a testament to what happens in response to disobeying, and will join the likes of her mother, her mother’s mother, and probably the mother who came before them…beaten by fists and bruised egos.
Blunt guts strewn across the floor made Medina wonder whether or not this had all been a drug-induced nightmare. No, J didn’t hit her. There is no way Mr. White Picket Fence (and the dog to match) was capable of this. The pain in her jaw had to be from something else.
This can’t be.
J said time and time again that they would never end up back…here. Nights that begin with listening to the manipulation Aubrey masks under the guise of love songs and end with warnings of how to proceed when your “man” is angry. He lies on the bed while she fails to cover up the fruits of his labor, in hopes to not upset him again. Lying, the double entendre for the physical and emotional acts she commits against herself when choosing to take back a lover who uses wrath to send a message.
“She’s so pretty”, Medina thought to herself while carefully scrolling through the social media of the wife he can never seem to remember when he’s here. She has long imagined what J is like before 1am, to women deemed worthy of respect. Is he calm? Does he enjoy PDA? Does he beat his precious Nola too? How exactly does one explain to the police how a “happily married” client turned boyfriend spends his evenings away from a corner office brutalizing the voiceless?
“Fuck it. No one will believe a ho anyway.”