Continue reading after the story for important information on domestic violence.
Angela and Billy had been dating for a few months. They met at a party that a mutual friend had hosted. She was reluctant to date him at first, he had been drunk and acted obnoxious, but somehow he got her phone number and called her for a date. She turned him down several times, but he persisted; finally she gave in.
He was sweet, for the most part, and attentive. He bought her a cell phone so that they could stay in touch all the time. He did have a nasty temper though. More than once she’d had to patch a hole in her wall created by his fist. Still, she reasoned, it was better than him hitting her.
Over time, he changed; so slowly that she didn’t even see it happening. He became a little more possessive, over-protective, and demanding. He started putting her down on occasion, making snide comments about how certain outfits she wore made her look fat/trashy/cheap. When she objected he laughed at her claiming to have been joking; still the sting from his words remained. By this time they were living together, and she was in love with him, so she tried to ignore this.
When he went on location to film, she had to go with him. He said he didn’t want to be away from her for so long. In reality, he didn’t want to give her the chance to talk to anyone.
He also started complaining about time she spent with her friends; it was time he wanted with her. He stopped giving her phone messages and told her not to answer the phone. She usually remembered, but it’s hard to ignore a ringing phone.
One day, when he was at the market, the phone rang. Dutifully, she let the machine pick it up; when her mother started talking she could tell something was wrong—her grandmother had died. She ran to pick up the phone. Unfortunately, that’s when Billy came home.
He didn’t say anything at first; he even let her finish the conversation. When she hung up the phone she found him in the sitting room looking at her icily.
‘You don’t listen very well do you? I tell you not to answer the phone, and I go to the market for half an hour—thirty fucking minutes!—and when I come back you're yakking away.’
‘But I . . . my mum called and—’
‘Shut up!’ he screamed. Rage filled his eyes and his face transformed. She’d never seen him so furious. She started to say something but he cut her off. ‘I said shut the fuck up!’ He punctuated his statement with a backhanded slap to her face. She fell to her knees, tears welling up in her eyes. She clutched her cheek with one hand.
Billy was instantly contrite. He apologised profusely and begged her forgiveness. He held her close and cuddled her whilst she cried. Afterwards he carried her to the bedroom and tenderly made love to her.
Angela convinced herself that it was a one-time thing. He became the perfect boyfriend afterwards, bringing her flowers, showering her with love and affection. But deep down, though she wouldn’t admit it to herself, she knew.
The second time he hit her she had gotten held up in traffic and was late getting home from the market. As soon as she walked in the door, he grabbed her, yanked her inside and slammed the door shut.
‘Where the fuck have you been? Got another boyfriend do ye? I told you to be back from the market by three-thirty! It’s after four now!’
She cowered before him. When he was enraged he was truly frightening. ‘I’m sorry,’ she started. ‘I got caught in rush hour traffic! I didn’t mean to be late. I’m sorry!’
‘Yeah, you're sorry all right. You're the sorriest thing I've ever fucking seen! Sometimes I wonder why I stay with you. I could have anyone I wanted, you know that. I’m Billy-fucking-Boyd! Women love me! And I stay with you, a pathetic excuse for a girlfriend!’
Angela gaped at him; he’d said mean things before, but never this cruel. She had started to turn away when his fist crashed into her ribs. Gasping, she collapsed to her knees. He grabbed the front of her shirt and hauled her up, halfway to her feet.
‘Never turn away from me like that again! Never!’ He drove his knee into her abdomen and let go of her shirt. She collapsed to the floor gasping as he strode out of the room.
There was a sharp pain in her chest and she had a hard time breathing. When he returned, minutes later, he found her on the floor, unconscious. He breathing was shallow and her lips were a dusky blue. Her face was starting to turn blue as well.
He grabbed the phone and called 911. He told the dispatcher that his girlfriend was injured and not breathing properly. He left out the details of her injury.
When the paramedics arrived, Angie was not breathing at all. As one paramedic inserted a breathing tube, the other examined her injuries. When he saw the bruising he said something quietly to his partner who stood and walked outside, speaking to a cop. The paramedic returned and helped his partner stabilise her neck and spine, as a precaution. They loaded her onto a stretcher and carried her out to the ambulance.
Billy started to follow, but the policeman restrained him. ‘I need to question you about what happened, son.’
‘Now? They're taking my girlfriend to the hospital!’ Tears welled in his eyes, he looked terribly concerned.
The cop was sympathetic but unyielding. ‘Now. The paramedics diagnosed a traumatic pneumothorax—a lung that’s collapsed because it was punctured by a bone, usually a rib. In addition, the bruising on her ribs appear to indicate she’d been punched. Can you explain this?
Billy gave the cop his best innocent look. ‘I don’t know anything about it officer. When I came home I found her lying on the floor, blue.’
The cop looked at him sceptically. ‘Really. Your neighbours reported shouting about ten minutes before the 911 call came. Your accent is pretty unique, and one of your neighbours claims it was clearly a Scottish accent.’
Billy grew angry. ‘Are you saying that I did that to my girlfriend? Do you know who I am? Maybe my neighbours are jealous of me! I don’t fucking know what happened!’
‘I know who you are Mr Boyd, and I don’t care. You're lucky because she’s going to live. You're also lucky that I don’t have enough to hold you on a domestic assault charge. I am going to make this a matter of record, so that the next time you beat your girlfriend, there’s a previous claim on file.’
‘I want your name; this is bullshit and I'm talking to my attorney about this!’
‘That would be a very good idea, Mr Boyd. My name is Officer Jonathan Moore, LASD. That’s M-o-o-r-e so make sure you spell it right. Good day.’ Officer Moore turned on heel and walked out.
Angie was kept in the hospital for a week; her lung had to reinflate before she could be released. Billy once again reverted back to his previous loving, caring self. A victims’ advocate came to see Angie in the hospital. She counselled Angie on Intimate Partner Violence. Angie denied that Billy had hit her. She fell and landed on the coffee table.
When she was released, Billy was there for her and helped her. It had been impossible to keep the news of Angie’s hospitalisation from hitting the gossip media, and there was a mob of reporters out front to capture Angie’s departure.
Most reporters commented that the couple’s relationship was in trouble. Angie seemed aloof and frightened of Billy—which fuelled further speculation regarding the nature of her injuries. Billy seemed distant and unhappy. This of course infuriated Billy. The ‘honeymoon period,’ the time between acts of violence in an abusive relationship, was quite short.
One day, Billy left for the market. Right after he left, Angie picked up the phone. She dialled the phone number the victims’ advocate had given her. She wanted out. Just after the call connected, the door opened; Angie froze.
‘Hey, Angie. I forgot my wallet. Can’t get groceries without . . .’ his voice trailed off when he saw the phone in her hand. ‘Are you fucking stupid or something?’ he screamed. ‘How many times do I have to say not to use the fucking phone?!’
Angela’s head snapped back from the force of the blow. The blows continued even after she had collapsed to the floor. She didn’t move as he kicked her, despite the pain. She was simply too dazed. Finally, they stopped. Half-conscious, Angie lay where she’d fallen, vaguely aware that he’d left the room.
The victims’ counsellor on the other end of the phone called 911—this was an unfortunate and sadly common part of his job. Luckily Angie had already given her name, and the centre used call ID.
A few minutes later he returned. ‘Ange . . .’ he crooned. ‘C’mon baby, wake up. I’m sorry love, I didn’t mean to hurt you, it’s just that sometimes you make me so mad and I lose my temper.’
She felt herself being lifted; still she didn’t move. Gently, Billy laid her on their bed, trying not to hurt her. He left long enough to retrieve a warm washrag and a bowl of water, to clean her cuts and scrapes. She closed her eyes; she knew what was coming next.
Soft fingers undressed her; warm lips skimmed over bare skin. She didn’t respond. The fingers and lips disappeared briefly. She heard the rustle of him undressing. Then he was back.
When he didn’t get the response he wanted from her, his fingers grew rougher, teeth replaced lips. If he couldn’t sweet talk her into what he wanted, he would take it by force. He was usually rough anyway; he liked showing her he was in charge, liked when she tried to fight back. He wouldn’t let her lay here, unresponsive, for long.
His teeth sank into the soft flesh of her breast. She cried out and brought her arm up, trying to push him off of her. He smiled; this was what he’d wanted. One hand pinned both of her wrists up above her head, the other skimmed down her body.
She tried to keep her legs tightly closed, tried to deny him entrance to her most private area. He smiled evilly.
‘Open them, Angie. You can't keep me out and you know it. You're a whore; you like to tease, don’t you. Like to get me going, and then stop. Well you can't, and you know it, you little cunt.’ His voice grew rougher and meaner. ‘Open your goddamned legs now you little fucking slut, before I punch you in your goddamned cunt.’ Knowing that he would, Angie relented. Wasting no time, Billy slammed his hard cock into her. She cried out, as he was well-endowed and she was dry.
‘Shut up you fucking whore.’ A slap followed the order. She whimpered, and when he slammed into her again, she cried out again. ‘You can’t follow orders can you, slut? I’ll just shut you up myself.’
He wrapped one hand around her throat closing off her airway. Unable to breath, Angie started fighting, thrashing her arms and kicking her legs as much as she could. Billy was much stronger than she, though, and was able to fend off her struggles easily. He tightened his hold, smiling cruelly; he liked it when she fought back. It was such a turn-on to have the little whore struggling beneath him that he was unable to fight orgasm for long.
He cried out his release and rolled off her, breathing heavily. He went into the loo to clean himself up. When he returned, Angie was in the same position she’d been in, arms above her head. ‘You can move now bitch. I’m done.’ Still she didn’t move. He walked closer.
Horror gripped him and he stared. ‘Ange . . . Angie wake up! Damn it, this isn't funny now wake up goddammit!’ He shook her. Her head lolled to the side revealing what he had wanted to avoid. Her eyes, though open, were unseeing, and lifeless.
She was dead.
He’d killed her.
‘Nooooo!’ he screamed.
The last thing he remembered seeing before he passed out was Angie laid out on a stretcher; the last thing he felt was the cold steel of handcuffs round his wrists; the last thing he heard was ‘I wish I had had enough to arrest you the last time, Boyd.’
As paramedics prepared to transport Angie to the medical examiner, Officer Jonathan Moore handcuffed Billy.
