In 1998, I was almost murdered by a former partner.  He shoved me up against a wall, picking me up by my neck.  I could see his eyes, bulging in their sockets.  His eyes took on an animalistic quality.  There was a high-pitched sound, like nails on a chalkboard.  It was his teeth gritting together, his anger was so raw.  His hand squeezed my neck until I heard a pop.  Then everything went black and there was pressure in my ears.  I could not hear anything anymore. 

            He dropped my body, and I collapsed on the floor.  A few seconds went by.  Was I dead?  I was thankful it was over.  Ready to go, I waited for a light or some kind of sign from the “other side”.  Nothing happened.  Then I began to feel my body being dragged by my heels.  I was going down the hall, through the bedroom and into the bathroom.  What was he doing?  He dropped my heels onto the cold, ceramic tile floor.  I felt the cupboard door under the sink thrust open and all of the chemical bottles were taken out and placed up against my body.  Oh my God, he was going to dispose of my body, and I could still feel everything! 

            I must not be dead!  As my panic began to rise, I tried to will my body to move.  I tried to scream.  Nothing happened.  In my head, I begged for death.  Begging for the torment to end.  In my mind came my silent scream of terror.  I blacked out.

            When I came to, I was in bed naked.  His arms and legs were wrapped around me.  I felt a burning pain between my thighs.  He had raped me while I was unconscious.  I could not speak; my throat was raw.  The horrors from the night before came flooding back.  I urinated on myself from the horror that I was still alive.  Tears ran down my face and I quickly composed myself, so I still looked asleep.   The urine had drenched the sheets, and he was waking up from the wetness.

            He jumped out of bed.  Oh my gosh!  Carrie, you must be sick.  You have wet the bed, go get changed.  I tried to get out of the bed and collapsed like a wet noodle.  He helped me into the bathroom, and I immediately vomited violently in the toilet.  He pretended as though the previous night had never happened.  He cared for me for the next three days as you would nurture any sick family member that you loved and cared for.  And I HATED him.  But I could not walk or speak.  No choice but to endure while I healed.

            I escaped that life on September 9th, 2002.  I remarried in 2009, had two more children and a career with a husband that helped me to feel safe.  My worst fear is that my life now is nothing but a dream, and I never escaped.