Pieces of Her: Death to Life Chapter 3: When He Tried to Kill the Light—Again

 

Chapter 3: When He Tried to Kill the Light—Again

I had almost reached the end of my pregnancy with my second child. A boy.

I don’t remember what I said to upset him. I just remember the glint in his eyes again.

I tried to run. But I was slow. Nine months swollen. Cornered between the bed and the dresser.

He laughed.

He shoved me onto the waterbed, the kind that offered no resistance. I flailed, trying to roll over, belly full and vulnerable. And he climbed on top of me. Pressing his knee hard into my ribs. Sinking. Threatening. Mocking.

I cried. I pleaded. I begged him to stop.

Not for me. For the child inside me.

And something in me broke. Again.

I remembered the first time. The first child. The first time he told me, "I cannot have another child," as he pressed his knee into my belly. The time I thought we were going to die.

But this time, there was no resistance. No strength left. Just water beneath me. Just silence above me.

I still carry the pain. Literally. A hernia near my rib that never fully healed. I thought it was from pregnancy. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. But my body remembers.

And this is how trauma stays.

In our muscles. In our bones. In the quiet places we press down and try to forget.

But not today. Today, I write it down. Not to relive it. But to release it.

So another woman out there can recognize what she’s living through. So she doesn’t excuse it. So she doesn’t think it's her fault.

This isn’t vengeance. This is truth.

He tried to kill the light. But the light lived.

And I will leave it on. For those still trying to find the door out.

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Quote:
"You think because he doesn't hit you, it isn't abuse. But he takes your voice, your power, your joy—and that is violence too."
— Nayyirah Waheed

Verse:
Psalm 34:18 (NIV)
*"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit."

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Author’s Insight

I almost didn’t write this chapter.
Because it still hurts.
Not just in my memory—but in my body.

There’s a spot, right near my ribs, that aches when I work out.
I always thought it was a pregnancy injury... until the memory came back.
Until I remembered the waterbed. The laughter. The knee. The helplessness.

Sometimes our bodies carry the truth long before our minds are ready to accept it.

This chapter isn’t just about what happened to me.
It’s about what I carried. What I buried. And what I’m finally unearthing.

There is so much shame in not being able to fight back.
In begging. In crying. In freezing.
But that was survival—not weakness.

If you have ever walked away from something that tried to destroy you,
with nothing but breath in your lungs and a prayer in your mouth—
you are not weak.
You are sacred.

I write this not to relive the pain,
but to release it from the prison of silence.
And maybe—just maybe—help you release yours too.

You are not alone.
You are not to blame.
And no part of your story is too ugly to be honored.

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Prayer of Release

For the woman still carrying pain in her body, soul, or spirit.

God,
There are wounds I’ve hidden—
because I thought no one would believe me.
Because I thought I had to be strong.
Because I thought surviving meant staying silent.

But today—I bring that pain to You.
The pain in my belly, the ache in my ribs, the echo in my heart.

I name what happened.
I grieve what was lost.
I release what never belonged to me in the first place.

Let every place in me that was broken by fear
be filled with Your peace.

Let every memory that still causes me to tremble
be held in Your gentle hands.

I forgive myself for not knowing how to leave.
I honor the version of me who fought quietly,
even when no one saw her struggle.

Today, I choose truth.
Today, I choose healing.
Today, I choose to reclaim what was once stolen from me.

This is my body.
This is my voice.
This is my reckoning.

And I am still here.
Alive. Healing. Free.

Amen.