"The prayer"

Just when I thought he could not take anything else away from me, he took my children.
Maybe I had become invulnerable in his eyes. No amount of aggressive lawyers, financial punishments, mocking messages as my father was dying, or even beatings seemed to really reach me. Even not breaking into my home to steal the kitchen knives provoked the reaction he was looking for.
So his attacks became so vicious we had to flee home to my family in Norway, the children and I petrified following the last incident before we left. I got two chances in the court system to prove that the children would be severely damaged if returned. The statistic chance of "winning" the case: 1%
Six months later my boys were collected by the police when the children and I were sheltering in a church, as I had only managed to prove to the court that they would suffer damage by being returned. Not serious damage, just damage.
Now all I pray for is that the children are safe, and that they will come home soon.

"Life was a bloody dream"

Everything that happened during the day I would carry with me, and it would color my dreams.
I would always sleep in a particular way; on my stomach, one leg halfway up, the opposite hand uncomfortably stretched down underneath me so that I could cup my hand around my underwear. In this way my bodyweight would protect me from being penetrated without waking up. In reality this did nothing to actually stop the abuse, but it gave me a sense of control to be aware when it happened.
On occasion, especially when the children were small and I would be nearly unconscious when I fell asleep, I would wake up in the morning and notice his fluids between my legs. This was always difficult.
Now I sleep on my back, arms where they are most comfortable, but the wounds are still there.

"The Rape"

For nearly a year afterwards I could not have a shower without a racing heart and tears streaming down my face, competing with the water. At first I couldn't manage to access the pictures flashing in the back of my head, something about why.
Then one day, driving in my car, I can remember the exact spot, the memory of the cold tap against my forehead.
For years I had rushed my showers to the extreme, knowing he would be upstairs any minute, in the bathroom, where I was not allowed to keep the door locked or even closed.
This was always the ideal opportunity to rape me as I would already be naked, and he knew I would be quiet so the children wouldn't hear.
I would always lean over the sink and think only of the feeling of the cold metal digging into my warm face.