Tropical storm memories

I hate tropical storms. They remind me of the time, back around 1995, that my evil ex-boyfriend forced me to drive in one from West Palm Beach to Miami, on the interstate, in a car with no air conditioning and only one working windshield wiper. To get a UPS for his computers so he could keep the internet up during the storm. He didn’t go with me, of course. I went alone, and had to drive with the windows down because the windshield kept fogging up otherwise. The drive wound up taking two hours each way.

That was the evil ex who used to beat and rape me if I made a mistake in his home business’ accounting software, or did anything else wrong.  I was 17 the first time that happened, but it wasn’t the first time he hurt me.  I was into BDSM, and he would ignore my safeword even if I was chanting it while sobbing and screaming.  Lovely man.  I was already broken, from repeated rapes at age 13, and he convinced me that he could fix me.  I just had to do what he said.

Tropical storms will always remind me of him.  Terrible, awful memories…

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