I think I am drawn to people who need help; I think somewhere in me, I believe I can save them whether they truly need help or not.

I had a boyfriend in high school whom I think I subconsciously believed needed just that. Me to save him. Coming from an abusive home, he was continually verbally and emotionally abused by his father. Physically even. At seventeen he had seen more violence then any child or young adult should ever see at the hand of their parent. Threats of violence could be heard on the other side of the phone most nights before he would abruptly tell me that he had to go.

I never thought about running away from that relationship. I thought I owed it him to stick it out and be there for him since he family was not.

One particular summer afternoon his father was home from a business trip and began yelling and screaming that some of the tasks he’d left in this boys’ charge had not been done. He blamed me. He said that I was the cause of this boy abandoning tasks that he was left with and that because of me he had not been contributing to the family as he should.

A screaming match ensued; I stood and walked from the room and straight outside. His mother and siblings stood by terrified to interject, as always.

I should have ran. I should have gotten in my car and left. I didn’t need to be apart of this, nor did I need this in my life.

But neither did he.

I stayed, I paced outside the house. I waited.

He emerged a little while later in full hysterics cursing his father and saying how he would love to just grab the shot gun they kept for killing gophers in the farm fields. He told me he wanted to kill his father.

I should have ran.

Never to look back.

But I stayed.

I tried to soothe him and remind him that there was only one more year before we were to leave for college, together. I tried to remind him that I loved him and that I was there for him. Always.

Stupid teenager.

Weeks passed, the tension in his home had subsided a bit. I only ever went there when his father was not expected home. This particular time, the boy had come to my house.

As we sat out front in his car we began to fight. I can’t even remember what the fight was about but  I do remember him threatening to hit me. The words stung so bad, but I quickly forgave him, blaming his upbringing for this change.

I convinced myself that it wasn’t his fault.

I convinced myself that this was okay…