Pseudotherapy

It was the screaming that woke us. At first, we thought they just had their TV volume blasting, as they sometimes do. Then came a heavy thud of something hitting the wall, followed by a muffled moan. Bret and I were sitting up by then, and looked at each other with trepidation.

“Any possible chance it’s just rough sex?” I asked him. A louder scream sharply edged with fear answered my question, even as Bret, his eyes dark with anger, shook his head. And then more thuds, almost rhythmic, with a cadence I recognized all too well.

He was banging her head against the wall.

I fled to the living room, weeping and nauseated, needing to separate myself from those sounds and the ugly memories they brought. Bret, who knows I was once the woman being slammed against a wall, came out to comfort me.

“What should we do? Call the cops?”

I shook my head. “He’ll know it was us.”

“Well, I’m going over there and put a stop to it, goddamn it.”

“NO! He’ll shoot you or something. And hurt her even worse next time.” So we sat there doing nothing, huddled in fear and shame, waiting for the sounds from the apartment next door to stop.

That was three weeks ago. Last night it happened again, not quite as loud or long. Bret, doped to the gills on Nyquil, slept right through. I was already awake, struggling through my own bout of Dave2plague, attempting to sleep while sitting upright on the couch. Maybe that’s why it seemed less loud ? because I was already in the living room. This time it made me angry. Angry at the man who vents his frustrations on a woman, angry at the woman who stays with him anyway, angry at myself for being a coward and not calling the cops.

The guy is a Marine, and he has a gun. I’ve seen it. I don’t know if he’s a MP, or if it’s standard for some Marines to wear holsters, but he seems to swagger when it’s on his hip. He also seems to be a victim of Small Man Syndrome: Noticeably shorter than average, he is ridiculously buff and annoyingly cocky. The woman is several inches taller than him, and when I’ve seen them together, she has been playfully bossy and flirtatious toward him. I’ve never seen a single bruise or mark on her, despite the fact that she is usually attired in camis and shorts. This could be due to her nearly-ebony skin; I don’t know. But the woman we see in the daytime is so difficult to associate with that midnight violence. She seems happy, in love, content with her life. I don’t get it. Why doesn’t she flee his abuse?

I don’t even live with the guy, but I’m afraid of him. I’m scared that if we report him, he’ll come over here and retaliate. We are the only neighbors who share walls with them, so he’d know right off it was us. I don’t want to get shot, or for my already-angry husband to get shot. But I also don’t want to see that woman carried out on a gurney some day.

I think of my daughter. If she were in that situation, I pray to God someone would be brave enough to step in and rescue her. I pray her neighbors would have more courage and less sense of self-preservation than I. But in the darkness of night, my fear of That Gun paralyzes me into inaction. And I sit quietly weeping, in my shame.

I don’t know what to do.

[tags]Domestic violence, fear[/tags]

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