WHAT HE DID TO HER

In the beginning, he used to fly out to Miami to see me.
We were falling in love. Or maybe I was falling into something else entirely.
Even then, there were signs—red flags I didn’t know how to name yet.

I remember the night the stalker broke into his house in LA.
She stole his car. She was living there.
And he didn’t do a thing.
He was too busy snorting meth and trying to date me.
And I let it slide, because I wanted to believe he was just struggling—not dangerous.

But then came the night I’ll never forget.
I came home to find him sobbing.
High on meth.
He said he dropped my dog—my baby—on her neck.
He had been tossing her in the air like a toy. Over and over again.
Trying to make her do flips. Circles. Front flips. Back flips.
Like it was a game.

She’s a tiny dog. Not a toy. Not a circus act.
But he didn’t listen.
He never listens.

It’s like he gets off on pushing the limit with her. Like some sick, twisted pleasure in scaring her. Controlling her. Hurting her.
And I’m starting to realize something even darker:
He only does it when he’s mad at me.

It’s like she becomes the outlet for his anger.
Like she’s the one who pays when he doesn’t know how to hurt me directly.
And that thought makes me sick. Because I let him near her. I let him back in.

I know this isn’t normal. I know this isn’t love.
And I know I have to protect her—just like I have to protect the baby growing inside me now.

Because he doesn’t stop.
Not for her.
Not for me.

And I’m done letting anyone hurt what I love.

K.