text: She began on the floor. Unfeeling tiles. Cold. Sharp smelling dust. Numb. No, that was not the tiles, that was her cheek, blue and swollen, resting on the tiles. The most comforting caress she had felt in this home was the frigid embrace of the cold tile floor doing what it could to numb the throbbing. Arms, hip, leg, hands, they felt the cold too. They would not respond. They weren’t hurt, she just did not believe moving them would help. He stood there. Fuming. Screaming. Hot, ragged, animalistic in his movements. A contrast so stark she was always surprised to not see fog forming in between them. Though the fog did come. She would find herself in the bath. In pajamas. Under his touch. Under him. Never really remembering how she got there. Always being told he could fix it, she could learn, it was her fault, but he forgave her. How he forgave her. She remembered she was in an office. Paper crinkling underneath. Cold. White walls that almost hurt the eyes. Gaudy posters of children and parents that did. A gloved, purple hand appeared in her peripheral, mimicking and floating toward the bruise on her cheek. She flinched so hard she almost fell off the table. Her bag clattered to the floor. Her heart was beating against her ribs. A heat raced through her veins, so sudden and intense she felt dizzy. The doctor held their hands up. She clenched, wrenched and wove her clammy hands into her sweater. Rubbing and itching her way into her skin, trying to remember what she was doing, what she was supposed to do. She began crying. She returned to that office often. Making excuses to get out of the house. The kids have an appointment. There’s a half day at school. My boss needs me to pick up a shift. Weekly lies building her courage. She began to say she had her own appointments. He fought back. He threw his tantrums. She began to realize that those were his problems. She would cry until her lungs hurt, but her headaches stopped, and she could remember every moment of every day. Taking notes. Filling out reports. Waiting in lines and keeping all of the receipts. She would walk until her feet hurt, but she could feel the blood in her legs and arms. The tension was gone, and she believed it was doing her good. She spoke until her throat was raw. Oh how she spoke. With fury, with purpose. She began to practice. Breathing deeply, control over her core, feeling her lungs. Tensing her fists, stretching her jaw, clenching her toes and rolling her shoulders. She was not in control of everything, but she remembered how to learn. It was never easy. She could not remember getting a good night’s sleep, but they were better. Her heart still beat against her chest when she heard the sound of keys jingling or floorboards shifting, but was able to rock it back to rest. She began to treat herself with the same care she would show a child. It was new to her. Every baby step was beautiful and awkward. She would fall, but she began to get back up. She began by tensing her fist, inhaling deeply, thanking the full feeling in her lungs. She exhaled, her breath mixing in the crisp morning air, as free as the new wind blowing in from the bay. The taste of the air was a little sour; the feeling in her back was a little sore. Though, her arms, hip, legs, hands, felt alive. She knew what she wanted to feel, and chose to begin walking toward the sun.