Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Releasing a ragged breath, I lean closer to the microphone. “Victims of abuse are resilient. They learn how to adapt and self-edit to prevent the abuse. They learn how to hide their pain and alienate themselves to avoid judgment.”
My scarred skin itches beneath the spotlight behind me, and my voice quivers. “While these adaptations are coping mechanisms, they can be insidious and harmful. Abused women second-guess themselves so much they can lose themselves in a deep hole of self-hatred and hopelessness. They need a support system, friends, family, people who will inspire them to seek help. People who will support them through recovery.”
For the next ten minutes, I walk through the signs of abuse, what to look for, and how domestic violence hotlines can help. When I finish the final bullet point, I sway at the podium, wrestling with indecision and the urge to throw up.
It would be so easy to end the speech now, wrap the shawl around my back, and return to Decker. He’ll be disappointed, but he’ll still choose me. Because he loves me.
What will you give up for this man?
I look out into the crowd, instantly transfixed by the adoration shining in his eyes. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me, and there’s still so much I want to do with him. I want to hold his hand in a movie theater, wear his underwear to bed, laugh with him until my stomach stitches, make out in a public restroom, and fall hopelessly in love with him every day for the rest of my life.
I want to sacrifice for him. I would give him everything, give up all of it, just to wake beside him every morning.
With a shaky hand, I remove the wireless microphone from the stand and step to the side of the podium. “It’s easy to put on a ninety-thousand-dollar gown and strut through a fancy ballroom. But to expose your mistakes, to wear your imperfections for all to see? That takes strength.” I pull in a deep breath. “Strength is a concept I’ve struggled with. What does it look like? Is it aggressive and ballsy? Does it have eight-pack abs?”
I aim a pointed look at Decker, and the crowd erupts in laughter. His expression remains neutral, intense.
“How is strength achieved?” I sweep my eyes through the room, trembling with nervous dread. “Can you grow strong through sheer force of will? I struggled with this concept because I haven’t been strong in a long time. I’ve been hiding. Afraid. Terrified my weaknesses will show through my designer clothes.” A flurry of emotion thickens my voice and burns through my sinuses. “I’ve recently learned I have the power to make myself feel strong and worthy.”
I can do this. I can do this. I know I can.
“I was a victim of abuse. I was beaten, violated, and disfigured.”
A ripple of energy stirs through the audience.
“The who, when, and how aren’t important. If you ask, I won’t disclose it. I’m not that victim anymore.” Tears gather in my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. “It took me a long time, but I see my strength now. I found it in the transition between hurting and healing, between hiding and surviving, between seeking acceptance and falling in love.” I find Decker’s eyes and imagine his raspy tone in my ear. “Sometimes you just need a shift in perspective, and everything on the outside will change with it. But more than that, you need the support from someone who cares.” I stand taller. “I’m a survivor, and I see strength in my scars.”
My heart pounds as I set the mic on the podium. The crowd explodes in applause, and my stomach hardens. I gulp down breaths, but the moment I meet Decker’s eyes, the dread loosens from my muscles. He believes in me. He loves me. I can do this.
Picking up the fur wrap, I hug it to my mid-section. Then slowly, wobbly, I turn, giving the audience a direct view of my exposed back.
The applause fades to a few claps. Then a single wavering clap. Then nothing.
Silence. Lots of it.
They’re in shock. Can’t blame them. I told them I had scars. I didn’t say twenty-six knife wounds.
The deafening hush continues, interrupted by the sound of a cough. The clink of utensils. Footsteps shuffling near the exit. Every little noise shivers goosebumps up my scarred spine. How long should I let them stare?
The tension-filled seconds feel like hours. Tremors ripple through my legs, threatening to knock me over. God, this is harder than I thought, but beneath the strangling fist of fear lurks a profound feeling. For the first time in six years, I feel liberated. Uninhibited by a mask. I finally feel free.
Turn around, Laynee. Turn around and face them.
Straightening my shoulders, I pivot toward the room.