I was twenty when I met him.

He was charming. Six foot tall, blond hair, piercing blue eyes, easy smile, intelligent, and that easy-going attitude that would win him many friends over the years…and assist him in his deepest manipulations.

I was twenty-two when he left me standing naked on a brightly lit doorstep in the darkest desert night. I was illuminated. I was humiliated.

It had started as everything started: at the pool hall. He was addicted to billiards. We spent every night in pool halls. I even got a job in one so he could play for free. He had the nicest cues (a few of them cost over $1000 each with beautiful inlays and semi-precious stones).

He was good. He played on a semi-professional level. There was no one in town that could beat him. He was a shark. Tourists would roam into the busy pool hall and he would be waiting. He could spot them a mile away. He could smell the money.

It was a bad night. He didn’t win as much as he thought he could. We fought on the drive home about something stupid. I was tired and he was mad. It was a bad combination.

I got out of the car. He threw his cue case at me. I ran into the house to escape his rage. He chased me down. He caught me and put me into a headlock (he wrestled in high school and was good and strong).

I hit at him to get away. I hit him hard in the groin. It was the only place I could reach. I never hit him again, even in the ensuing years when he hurt me even worse.

His hands went around my neck. He was squeezing. He squeezed harder. My legs went out from under me and I was brought to my knees. I could taste the blood in my mouth. I could feel my breath being cut off. I could feel myself dying.

He let go and walked away leaving me with bruises on my throat.

I went to the bedroom and undressed, crawling naked into bed.

He was waiting for that moment.

He pulled me by my hair down the hall to the front door. I was crying, begging him to stop. He pushed me out without a word. I heard the deadbolt click.

I was locked out.

I yelled. I begged. I tried to cover myself with my hands, my arms. I curled up in a ball on the doorstep.

I whimpered.

I shook.

And he finally opened the door having taught me my lesson.

I was redeemed.

I was twenty-five when I escaped from him.