Lover at­tacked me with boil­ing wa­ter. Then my night­mare re­ally be­gan

Pick Me Up! Special - - News -

Out with mates, I was try­ing to join in the fun, but my phone kept on ping­ing. ‘It’s Andrew,’ I sighed. ‘He’s ask­ing what I’m up to.’ Again. ‘That’s so sweet of him!’ my friend replied. But was it? I used to think the same. But re­cently, my boyfriend Andrew’s con­stant check­ing up on me felt a bit over the top.

When we’d first met, I’d been hav­ing a rough time.

‘Come un­der my wing,’ he said. ‘I’ll look af­ter you.’

I felt so lucky that this sexy, 6ft tall bloke with a body­builder’s physique wanted me. Wanted to look af­ter me. Within a few weeks of meet­ing, I was spend­ing most nights at Andrew’s house.

He made me feel spe­cial and was al­ways buy­ing me gifts.

But just three months into the re­la­tion­ship, I no­ticed Andrew started to change.

He drank heav­ily, and started ques­tion­ing my move­ments. He didn’t like me go­ing out. Now, in Novem­ber 2013, I’d told him I was go­ing out with the girls and he hadn’t left me alone. I’d had texts all night. Where was I? What was I do­ing? Who was I with? At mid­night, he rang. ‘Get home now!’ he or­dered. He sounded fu­ri­ous, and the last thing I wanted was a row.

‘I’d bet­ter call it a night,’ I told my mates, hang­ing up. I jumped in a taxi home. I didn’t have cash, so I asked the driver to wait while I bor­rowed money from Andrew.

But as I walked through the door, I was taken by sur­prise…

Andrew kicked my feet from un­der me, send­ing me crash­ing to the floor. He was drunk. I’d been drink­ing, too, but I soon sobered up.

‘What are you do­ing?’ I sobbed.

‘You know what you’ve done!’ he yelled. I didn’t un­der­stand. What was he talk­ing about? ‘I need to pay the taxi,’ I pleaded. He ig­nored me and ac­cused me of cheat­ing on him.

‘Give me your phone,’ he said. ‘And your pass­word.’

Re­fus­ing, I ran out­side and begged the taxi driver for help. But he drove off and left me on the pave­ment, ter­ri­fied and alone.

I found Andrew swig­ging from a bot­tle of vodka on the sofa.

Then he or­dered me to sit down.

From the kitchen, I heard the ket­tle boil­ing.

‘Give me your phone now,’ he snarled an­grily.

When I re­fused, he stum­bled to the kitchen, and re­turned hold­ing the ket­tle in his hand.

Be­fore I knew it, Andrew stood over me, hold­ing the ket­tle men­ac­ingly above my head.

‘Give me you pin num­ber now,’ he threat­ened.

‘You wouldn’t…’ I cried, ab­so­lutely ter­ri­fied. ‘Wanna bet?’ he replied. Boil­ing hot wa­ter poured out of the ket­tle, land­ing in my lap.

I screamed in agony as the wa­ter soaked through my jeans, scald­ing my pri­vates.

‘You’re never go­ing to have sex

Boil­ing wa­ter scalded my lap

again,’ he said, a wicked grin spread­ing across his face. His eyes nar­rowed again. ‘Now give me that pin,’ he growled, lift­ing the ket­tle.

Giv­ing him my num­bers, I begged him for a cold bath. My skin felt like it was on fire. ‘A bath?’ Andrew grinned. Then his fist snatched up my long, dark hair.

I screamed in ter­ror as he dragged me up­stairs, then turned on the taps.

‘Get in the f*ck­ing bath!’ he roared at me. Whim­per­ing, I climbed in, naked. I was too scared to look down at my scalded body.

A few min­utes later, Andrew pulled me out.

Then he started hit­ting my body

hard – arms, legs,

face, any­thing he could reach. He dragged me by my hair to the bed­room. ‘Sit in the cor­ner. Don’t move!’ he said.

He lay on the bed, on his stom­ach, fac­ing the other way.

Within a cou­ple of min­utes, he was snor­ing.

Afraid he was trick­ing me, wait­ing for me to move so he could at­tack me again, I waited for what felt like an eter­nity be­fore slowly get­ting to my feet.

I spot­ted a fiver stick­ing out of his back pocket, swiped it, then ran for the front door, my heart beat­ing out of my chest.

I took a taxi to my flat, too fright­ened to go to hospi­tal.

The fol­low­ing morn­ing, at 11am, my mum Norma, 48, popped by.

When she saw me black and blue, she was hor­ri­fied.

Worse still, when she no­ticed I strug­gled to walk, she forced me to tell her what hap­pened, and rushed me to Rugby Hospi­tal.

At the burns unit, I was thor­oughly checked and had an X-ray. There were scars and blis­ters be­tween my legs.

I had no choice but to tell the doc­tor what hap­pened, and was promised con­fi­den­tial­ity. I stayed at Mum’s for a few days. Then Andrew called. ‘It won’t hap­pen again,’ he said, beg­ging for for­give­ness. I was torn. ‘Please don’t go back,’ Mum begged. ‘A mother isn’t sup­posed to bury her daugh­ter.’

But I loved Andrew, so I de­cided to go back.

And for the first cou­ple of weeks, Andrew was lovely.

Then, two weeks later, while I was out, he sent a video to my phone.

I stared in dis­be­lief, watch­ing footage of Andrew in the gar­den, a bon­fire roar­ing. What’s that? As I looked closer, I no­ticed some of my things – my clothes and hand­bags – all go­ing up in flames.

I couldn’t be­lieve it and didn’t know what I’d done to de­serve it.

When I got home, I asked him why he’d done it. He didn’t have an an­swer. Noth­ing was saved – ev­ery sin­gle item of cloth­ing I owned had been de­stroyed in the fire. Still, I stayed. If I try hard, things can be good again, I thought.

On my birth­day in June 2015, Andrew or­gan­ised a sur­prise party in the pub.

I felt so lucky, but at the end of the night, when we got home, Andrew at­tacked me again.

Drunk, he lashed out and stamped on my head, knock­ing me out.

When I came round, he was still pound­ing his foot into my skull.

It only stopped when he passed out from all the al­co­hol.

The next morn­ing, I called a friend who drove me to hospi­tal, where I had X-rays. Andrew had bro­ken my shoul­der. Al­though I told med­i­cal staff what had hap­pened, I still didn’t re­port him to the po­lice.

Three days later, I was still in hospi­tal when Andrew called.

‘I’m in the car park. Come out­side, I’ve got a sur­prise,’ he said.

When I went out, he had two kit­tens in his hands. ‘Th­ese are for you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’ He’d beaten me un­con­scious and he thought some fluffy kit­tens would make it OK?

It was al­most laugh­able. And yet, I was so frag­ile that I took him back. He’d knocked the fight out of me. I’ll never have the strength to leave, I thought.

But when it be­came clear that noth­ing was go­ing to change, I even­tu­ally re­alised… I wasn’t bro­ken. I could leave. I had to. Not only that, I fi­nally did what I should have done years be­fore. I re­ported Andrew to the po­lice. Taken to a safe house, I told them ev­ery last de­tail.

Andrew was ar­rested in March 2016, charged with griev­ous bod­ily harm with in­tent and as­sault oc­ca­sion­ing ac­tual bod­ily harm.

He was con­victed of two counts of as­sault oc­ca­sion­ing ac­tual bod­ily harm af­ter plead­ing guilty to those.

Last Au­gust, Andrew Smith, 36, was jailed for 15 months, with a re­strain­ing or­der against him.

Af­ter leav­ing the safe house, I left the area and moved far away.

I don’t think Andrew’s sen­tence was enough. That man al­most de­stroyed me. But not quite. I’m in a new re­la­tion­ship now, and though I’m dam­aged, I’m hav­ing coun­selling. And the best re­venge? I’m get­ting stronger ev­ery day.

I was too afraid to re­port Andrew

I felt so lucky to have him

He promised to pro­tect me Beaten for no rea­son

He beat me in a jeal­ous rage

Andrew would­nõt change

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