Wife

Wife

Fotografía: Alison Ceballos - EL CLAVO

Your caresses are now fists, your affection, now insults and your love, now violence. You did love me once, a long time ago when things were so much simpler, when life was so much easier. Your hands were so soft then, your voice so gentle, your smile so genuine and caring. I thought you would love me forever. I was happy then. You would leave for work with a kiss and I would think about you all day, wondering how I’d been so lucky to find someone like you.

You were so charming with everyone, no one suspected that you were anything else than what you portrayed yourself to be. I was so wrong. We were all so very wrong.

I don’t remember when it started exactly. You came home tired, melancholy and depressed, I believed it was just a phase but you pushed me away from your heart and your mind. I was worried about you, I wanted everything to go back to the way it was.

The first time you hit me was when I served your food warm instead of hot. I was tired and I forgot to heat it. I didn’t deserve that, and you knew it, but you never apologized. You just left me there on the floor, covered in the food that you refused to eat and shards of what was once a plate littered around me. I still don’t know where you went that night, but you didn’t come back until the next morning.

Who would have thought that beneath your smooth, friendly exterior hid a monster? You wouldn’t let me leave the house, talk to people or even breathe too loudly. I became your prisoner, your punching bag and your slave. I had so many bruises and burns that I wasn’t even able to count them all, but you never cared. You just acted as if what you were doing was right. So many times I tried to run, call for help, scream, but you would drag me back into the hellhole that was our ‘marriage’ and beat me until I saw nothing but blackness. You made me lose hope in the world.

I told you this would end, that you would stop one day, but you just spat at me and smashed your fists into my body as if I were a bag of sand. How could I have ever loved you?

And here I sit, with your blood dripping from my hands, the knife I used to plunge into your body over and over and over again lying on the tiled floor, glinting guiltily below the fluorescent kitchen light. I’m huddled in a corner, staring at your glassy eyes, wishing I’d never met you, or that somehow this could have ended differently. My mind’s a blank, yet there’s one sentence that springs up, one that you would tell me every time you finished beating me to the ground with your own hands.

‘Look what you made me do….’

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