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The first time he hit me started as a joke.
He said to me, "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, if I ever try to leave you should use these on me." and handed me a pair of handcuffs. We laughed together.
That same day I went to a friend's to drop off some class notes I'd borrowed. I was back within ten minutes and I told him beforehand where I was going, but he was still so angry. He broke every CD I owned, the floor was covered with the shiny silver shards and he threw them at me as I covered my face. I hated my own voice as I choked out an explanation through my tears. I thought everything was ok; we sat down and ate together, smoked a blunt, cuddled on the bed.
He stood up abruptly and said he was leaving, he didn't know when or if he would be back. I held up the handcuffs playfully, thinking he was joking, and reminded him of his earlier words. He grabbed them and wrenched my arm behind my back.
He fractured my wrist that night, and instead of going to the hospital or the police I spent all night searching for him. I slept on a stone bench in the cold because he had the only key to my dorm room and I couldn't get back inside.
It was a foreshadowing of how I would live my life for the next three and a half years.