The First Fight

Everything happened really fast. That’s mostly what I remember during The First Fight, anyway. Not that it was our first fight. That had already happened. But it was the first one to go the way it did. It was one of those times in life that seemed to move fast-forward VHS-style, scratchy screen included. Whisky was on the bed, then he was in front of me with his hands around my throat, and then, he was lifting me off the floor and moving me across the room. I hadn’t realised he was so strong.

He flicked the key in the vintage-style wardrobe behind me, then opened the door, smacking it across my back in the process. I couldn’t work out what he was doing. Honestly, I was more concerned about what his other hand was doing. His grip around my neck was strong, and I was starting to get a tingling in my lips that didn’t feel good. I could just about breathe. If he squeezed any harder, I wouldn’t have been able to. It was panic-inducing.

He shoved me back into the wardrobe by the hand around my throat. I begged and pleaded with him to stop, my voice barely croaking out from between his fingers. My hands were scratching at his arms, but nothing worked.

His eyes no longer looked like his eyes. It’s an odd thing to try and explain, but they weren’t his eyes. Nowhere close. They were much darker, almost black in colour. Glazed over. Looking through me rather than at me. It was like he’d seen something demonic inside me and had been compelled to destroy it. He was catholic and all.

My vision started to go dark. I thrashed and smacked and kicked with the strength I still had left, which wasn’t much, but it somehow did the trick. My left hand collided with his face in an almighty crunch, and he finally let go, suddenly, leaving me to collapse to the floor with a thud.

Whisky stormed out of my room and went berserk around The Flat. He lifted one arm and swept everything off the kitchen counters, sending plates and cups smashing and crashing all over the floor; threw the kettle and toaster across the room, then repeatedly kicked them until parts of plastic flew off; and smashed every stolen pint glass we owned.

And then, he went into the living room.

I tried to stop him as he strode over to Bestie’s television, and I threw myself in front of it. “No. Stop. That’s not mine. Please. Please. Please.”

He picked up the TV, tearing the plug from its socket, and hurled it on the floor. The back separated from the main part of it, and the screen was destroyed. I couldn’t stop crying. How the fuck was I meant to explain this to Bestie? It was going to cost me a small fortune to replace the things that Whisky had already broken, and he wasn’t finished yet.

DVDs and VHSs were torn from their boxes, then both were thrown across the room. One VHS broke almost in half from the force at which he threw it against the wall. He smashed photo frames and little trinkets, ripped cushion covers, tore apart the flatpack TV cabinet, and even yanked the curtains down along with their poles.

He stormed out after that, slamming the door behind him. I could hear him outside, shouting and swearing and hitting things. I ran into my bedroom and peered out of the window to see him pushing over the already crumbling half-wall that surrounded our front garden. I’d hoped that he would run out of steam and go back to his barracks. For a few minutes, he disappeared out of view.

Sadly, around five minutes later, he came back, hammering loudly on the door. I think we were already well beyond the point of waking up my downstairs neighbour, though. I was already dreading the apology tour that I’d no doubt have to go on the next day.

I had two options: I could ignore him and hope that she (downstairs neighbour) called the police, or I could let him in and potentially get hurt again. By the time I’d made the decision to let him in, he’d already smashed the glass of my front door and let himself in. This time, he just threw a few pairs of shoes in my bedroom, smashed one final glass, then called me a “stupid whore” as he stormed out again.

Thankfully, he didn’t come back that night.

That horrible, ugly first fight was over.

The cleanup operation sure wasn’t, though. It took Bestie and I few weeks to finally afford to replace the new TV, because they weren’t cheap-ish back then like they are now. The posessions that we’d once inherited from beloved family members were soon replaced with new, cheaper Argos versions. It would also take a couple of months for my pinkie knuckle to heal, the result of hitting him during our wardrobe escapade. My friend thought I might’ve broken it, but I refused to go to the hospital, because I didn’t want to explain what had happened. It was and is mostly fine. But… I was so bad at punching someone that I’d managed to hurt myself in the process. 

In all seriousness, though, what the fuck had just happened between us?!

The next blog post in the dating timeline is this one: Best Behaviour.