never look back unless you want to face the past

I knew it was over long before he ever did. I tried to be nice about it, but that only made things harder. He drug it out for much longer than necessary. I didn't think he would end up being 'one of those'. I was in love for the first time in my life and I never wanted it to end. But after our relationship hit the downward spiral, I noticed a change in him and his demeanor. It was like invasion of the body snatchers. A metamorphosis of sorts. I should have known; if it's too good to be true, it probably is.
We had the aesthetically perfect life. No fighting, no lies, no violence, no worries...ever. When I found out I was pregnant with his child I thought it would be the very thing to bring us closer than ever. I couldn't have been more wrong. After the initial shock fron the announcement, he calmed himself. But only long enough to gain the strength to beat the shit out of me, especially in the stomach. Two days later I lost the baby. A direct result of the beating which I had to over-explain to cover up the truth. My doctor never did believe me, but what could he do? As far as he knew the "father" was a figment of my imagination. No one believed me. That was fine because I knew the truth.
Later that year, during the holidays, after things seem to calm down and I had been force fed apologies and excuses to the point of denial, we were suppose to go to my sister's for a traditional dinner with the family. This was the routine every year. Get together, exchange gifts, talk about how we were all used to be so young, and remember when. That year he ruined it. In one fell swoop, he ruined it. My sister hasn't spoken to me since.
The next spring came and I found myself on a particularly wonderful day and felt like drawing murals on the sidewalk in front of our house. The neighbors loved what I had created and some of them actually commissioned me to do the fronts of their properties as well. At that moment when I felt like I was truly appreciated, yet again, he stripped it all away. It wasn't good enough to take the hose and wash it away. No. He went to the shed and found the most flammable liquid he could conjure up and spilled it over the entire surface of my artwork, then set the sidewalk on fire while he laughed. Nobody did a thing to stop him. He was maniacal and out of control. The nice suburbanite scum who praised me minutes earlier retired to their dwellings encompassed in peace and left me to my own personal hell without so much as a word. I knew it was over.
I tried to overlook his shortcomings. I tried to understand his pain. I tried to love him in spite of it all. Sometimes one has to realize her limits. I moved out with no warning and no forwarding address. I found a new job and traded my car, dyed my hair and cut most of it off, and even changed my name. I wanted to become anonymous. For some reason I had the sickening feeling that he wouldn't say goodbye. One week later, I came home to find my cat, my only family, dead on my floor without his head. Blood was everywhere. I screamed when I found the brown paper bag on my coffee table, seeping with what I knew was the rest of my cat. On the wall was a message in black permanent marker. I LOVE YOU! I rang the police, but they didn't seem to take any interest in the situation. "It's only a cat," said the older one. At that moment I realized there was no escape. I had nothting left, so I ran and I never looked back.