The scars were undeniable. They were not the chaotic, desperate, symmetrical marks of someone harming themselves for attention. They were jagged, deep, and defensive. There were long, faded lacerations across my right forearm from where I had shielded my face from shattered glass. There was a brutal, dark indentation near my left collarbone that had healed poorly. There was a sweeping, raised white line across my shoulder. They were the undeniable, violent history of a woman who had been repeatedly forced to defend her life against a much larger, enraged man in the dead of night.
At our divorce hearing, my husband presented fake psych reports to steal my assets. “You’ll be starving on the street,” he laughed, holding his mistress’s hand. He thought I was just a broken, silent victim. I didn’t argue or cry. I calmly unbuttoned my silk blouse. When they saw what covering my chest and arms, the judge gasped. The entire courtroom went dead silent. “Your Honor,” I whispered, staring dead at my pale husband. “This is no longer a divorce hearing. This is the trial for every dark secret you believed would remain buried forever.” My husband’s smile turned into pure terror.
