The Art of Leaving by A.D. Hurley

The Art of Leaving

   Suddenly, words seemed inadequate.  All the rehearsed speeches, agonizing over every utterance, where the inflection was placed, how the tone could be perceived, countless hours in front of the mirror practicing facial expressions-it was all for nothing. Now, the words spun around in my head like tumbleweed across a barren desert landscape.  I tried to lock on something solid from my scripted monologue, but nothing seemed concrete enough to stop the words from spinning recklessly and bumping into one another in a jumbled mess.  Pieces of it would float by, “It’s not you, it’s me,” or “I think we should see other people.”  But each time the words drifted by, I’d fail to grasp them and throw them out there.  The words seemed so pale.  So used.  

   I was acutely conscious of the precious moments ticking by.  Moments wasted on incoherent thought and inaction.  I opened my mouth and closed it again; the words I planned to speak choked off by your angry expression and reddened face.  I’d seen the look so many times before it was hard to imagine your face looking any other way.  

   The anger had made a permanent scar; it had left its mark- not only on you, but on me.  There was a secret place inside me that loved it.  Not in the moment, but after.  Your face would redden, and fists would fly, and I would retreat into a shell until the storm had passed.  And it always would.  My retreat would be short lived and every second after would be blissful.  Tender kisses would caress fresh bruises and grand gestures would sweep me off my feet once again.  I’d convince myself that the moments between were worth every blow.  For, in those moments I felt like a queen.  You’d lay the world at my feet on a platter of immeasurable intimacy and steal my breath away like the day I first met you, over and over again.  

   But things became different.  The blows were harder, more severe.  When it was over I would wait for the kisses that never came.  I found myself staring in the mirror more frequently at a black and blue, unrecognizable face.  Even then, I relished the beatings.  The anticipation of love still lingered, even though it never came.   With every strike of your fist I expected your passion to reemerge in some way new.  

   It was the nurse who convinced me to end it.  There was something about her- a sweet soul with liquid painkillers and a light touch. “You deserve better, honey,” the nurse said.  Then she shot my line with morphine and stroked me gently.  The world tilted and swayed and the fringes of my vision were fuzzy white.  The nurse kissed my broken place.  The doctor called it an orbital lobe.  She kissed it harder, harder, until the weight of her lips hurt beneath my morphine haze. “Why would you want to be treated that way?” She whispered fiercely.  Then her healing fingers snaked beneath the blankets, under my gown, and between my lips, the drugs coursing through my veins, and the nurse loving me, then hurting me, then loving you as she rode your cock right there in the hospital room with consciousness playing a game of tug of war over my mind.  

   That’s when I saw.  When I planned.  When I knew.  I left the hospital and my bruises healed.  I looked in the mirror and saw a whole face. Unblemished, unbruised.  I missed the bruises.  I missed the nurse with the healing hands.  I missed your reddened face and your fists of fury.  But they were busy with the nurse.  I could hear your moans coming from the other room and would watch with a torture only I could enjoy and loathe at the same time.  

   The nurse was right.  I deserved better.  So, I practiced my speech.  I practiced all the right words.  Inflection and tone were rehearsed in the mirror.  

   “I can’t be with you anymore.”  Once I said the words, there was no turning back.   I would never again see your beet-red face of anger or a battered face looking back at me in the mirror.  I wouldn’t have to batten down the hatches and prepare for your perfect storm of anger. Your kisses and apologies would never come. This would be your last grand gesture.

   When I handed you my house keys, and you saw my packed bags, no words were needed.  I wanted to say them still.  I needed to say them.  But your face mottled and your fists flew and the words I practiced wouldn’t come.  Minutes ticked by as I felt your fists pummel my cheek, head, ear, and neck. The words fell in my head like shattered fragments of glass and I felt myself hit the floor.  Your feet pounded my ribs, back, and stomach, bones crunched and tissue bruised and blood pooled inside my belly.  I heard the shriek of the nurse, “You’re killing her!”  And your persistent, farewell blows.  Finally, you stopped.  As darkness closed in, I smiled.  I smiled at your discolored and worried face, and exhaled my last breath to the nurse’s painful kisses.  ​

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Bio: A.D. Hurley lives in the scenic mountains of North Georgia, with her large brood of children, a fantastically domesticated husband, and two dogs.  She is a poet, writer, associate editor for Ariel Chart Literary Journal, and artistic photographer. Her poetry, prose, and photography can be found in a number of literary journals and anthologies published across the globe. ​

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