I wrote The Dragon about an abusive ex of mine. The more I write about her, the more I can let go.

Izabela lives in South Dartmouth, MA with her wife and rescue beagle, Face. She has a degree in psychology and works as a freelance writer. She enjoys reading, writing, and all forms of art. For more of her work, check out her blog at https://ladychronicswordpresscom.wordpress.com/

She hid her demon horns behind flowers and poetry. I fell for pretty
words and explosive sex. She spoon-fed me incredible stories about her life
and I suspended reality so I could believe. I was drawn to her like a moth
to a zapping flame, though my death was reflected in her black hole eyes.
In an instant that I didn't notice, passion turned to violence. "No"
meant "yes" to her. Deep in the fairy tale she had created for us, I let
her take what she wanted. Objects thrown turned into Snow White's birds.
Her threats were Gothic romance. Would she really kill herself if I left?
Go ahead, jump.
With an arm across my throat and a hand inside of me, she claimed me as
hers forever. Darkness began to float across my vision. Fearful of stopping
her, I desperately gulped the little air I still could. With a sadistic
grin, she let go before I faded out completely and pushed me into orgasm.
Why would you ever want to leave me?
Our arguments turned volatile, physical. Pinning me to the wall, she
raved like a madwoman. There was no escape; she was stronger than I was. I
flew to another place, even as she buried the letter opener in the wood
mere inches from my head. You can never leave me. You belong to me.
I turned CSI and peeled back the layers of lies. Her life, her background
- all of it, deception. She didn't care; she had an answer for
everything. It was a test. You still love me, don't you?
Like the best drug in the world, I kept coming back for more. Even when
we broke up and she found another victim, I sat quietly in the background
until she got off the phone, then hopped into bed to be her toy. Still
under her spell, being her mistress allowed me to finally spend time with
my friends, something she had forbidden when I was her slave. Wake up;
she doesn't love you. She didn't know what love was.
As the pain in my heart grew and the questions swirled in my mind, I
found the perfect solution. A piercer shoved metal through both of my
nipples. The pain was exquisite, divine, beyond anything I've ever felt
before. I passed out twice, but when I came to, there they were - two
shining metal hoops, the blessed agony beautifully adorning my body. It
was the first step in my freedom. The next would follow soon enough. We
parted ways when the last semester ended and I knew I needed a permanent
reminder of the hell I had survived. The tattoo artist was impressed that
I sat so still for my first ink on my hip. I had chosen
the Chinese letter for dragon. Chinese, like her. Dragon as my protector.
She had at one time taken a razor blade and carved it into my shoulder
blade. My pain was her pleasure. But the scar had faded, like my memories
of her evil were already doing. The tattoo would ensure that I'd never
forget, never allow anyone to take command of me like that again. I saw
her one last time that summer. She was suave as always, reaching down my
pants. Her hand brushed the raw tattoo, giving me the strength to push her
away. She was not the rose, but the thorn, dipped in poison. I saw that
now. I turned around, walked away, and never looked back. My life was my
own again and no one was given control like her ever again. The dragon
made sure of that.