[ OT ] Sunday Free Write : Leave A Story , Leave A Comment - Another Call for Moderators Edition

**This is the start of a story I have been working on. The story does n't really have a title yet, so I've just been calling it Ellie** 
 
 “ I don ’ t want to go through this again. ” 
 
 “ Don ’ t want to go through what, Elle? ” God. Don ’ t call me Elle. Not right now. Not when I ’ m mad at you. Eleanor will do. 
 
 “ You know what, Thomas. The whole ‘ I ’ m sorry, baby. ’ The ‘ I didn ’ t mean it, baby. ’ ‘ It won ’ t happen again, baby. ’ Nope. I ’ m not in the mood. 
 
 “ Eleanor, It ’ s true though. ” The gall. He really thinks he should be absolved from this. 
 
 “ The fact that you say that again shows how much you really care. It ’ s the same every time, and I ’ m done. I think you should leave now. ” That is not what he wanted to hear. He ’ s fuming. My face is hot and if my stomach clenches any tighter I might throw up. 
 
 He ’ s not moving. I asked him to leave and he ’ s standing there, mired down in his warped view that I am overreacting and I will eventually relent. And I would, until now. Now, I am finished and I need him to leave so I can finish it. Me, not him. It ’ s the final battle and I will come out the victor. “ I don ’ t think you heard me, Thomas. You should leave. Now. Get out of my apartment. ” 
 
 “ Don ’ t say that, Ellie. You ’ ll regret it. ” His fists are clenched and there is a dangerous fire in his eyes. I ’ m emboldened by his rage. 
 
 “ Somehow, I doubt that. Get out, Thomas. I ’ m done. ” I point him to the door, which fuels the fire in his eyes. He storms past me and throws the door open. As he ’ s about to exit, he wheels around and growls, “ If I walk out this door, that ’ s it, we ’ re finished. ” 
 
 His angry words bolster my confidence. “ That ’ s the goal. Make sure you shut the door on your way out. ” He furrows his brow, turns back, and slams the door, shaking the frame. I did it, he ’ s gone. I take a deep breath and collapse into the couch. I did it. I take another deep breath, that gives way to sobs that wrack my body and fill the air with the significant relief that consumes me. I did it. 
 
 After a while, I manage to calm myself down enough to get up and walk into the bathroom. Geez, I ’ m a disheveled mess, I think as I look into the mirror. Mascara is starting to run down my face, and it seems to highlight the swelling under my eye where there is most definitely going to be a bruise. My eyes are still my eyes, still blue and still shining, but they ’ re tainted with hurt and disdain. There ’ s a cut on my lip too that seems to blend in with the remnants of the red lipstick I was wearing earlier. I always hated that gaudy ring he wore on his finger, and now for good reason. I always thought it made him look pompous. My hair is a mess. The short bobbed style doesn ’ t compliment a woman in disarray. It used to be long, halfway down to my back, but he said it would look so pretty if I cut it. So I did it to impress him. I was always trying to impress him. 
 
 I rustle around in the cabinet for the make-up remover and gently try to remove what was left of the mask I ’ d painted on for the evening. Once off, my face looks better, minus the swelling. I ’ m still in the clothes I wore out and they reek of him. I shrug them off and jump into the shower, hoping to wash every last memory of this night away. I stand there for what feels like hours. I hear the phone ring and go to voicemail. “ Ellie ’ s not here, leave a message! ” This process repeats about 3 times before it finally stops. It ’ s probably Thomas, and he ’ s probably apologizing and lamenting that he screwed up. He has probably convinced himself that a few sorry phone calls will fix this, but it won ’ t. Not this time. This time is different. 
 
 I get out of the shower and shuffle into my bedroom. I put on pajamas and sit down on my bed. I should call the police. I should call my mother. I should throw his things out a window. For a moment, I am overwhelmed by what I should do, and then I realize its nothing I can ’ t do tomorrow. My eyes are heavy with secrets I no longer want to keep and no longer have to. I lie down and pull the covers over me. I ’ ll address the should ’ s tomorrow. Now, I just need to sleep. 

