I can’t believe it’s happened again. When will I learn to keep my mouth shut? To avoid his anger, I have learned to give up the majority of the time.
Sometimes, I feel I make excuses for his rudeness.
I know I didn’t deserve what he did…
I am a strong woman—always have been, always will be—but that was the day I lost respect for my husband. We had only been married for three weeks, just twenty-one days. I’ve always heard the first few weeks are meant to be the happiest of your life.
I stay in the shower sobbing, then I honestly don’t even remember getting up or drying myself off. I was numb. I dress in winter pajamas and collapse on the couch with a blanket. I can’t be in the same room as him.
The next day, he sends me a large bouquet, but I can’t even look at it.
The day after that, he buys me a stunning Tiffany bracelet, but it doesn’t take away what he did.
The next night, he brings home Chinese food and lets me choose the TV channels. The man I married has returned. Well, for now.
He gives me the same apology, and he even cries this time, saying he will get help, stop drinking, and make it up to me.
But I never get over it…
The nightmares and haunting memories are so real and vivid for the next few nights.
As I said, that was five weeks ago. We are in a better place right now. I shower that night, feeling that maybe we have turned a corner and will never get back there. Maybe people can change.
I should have known better. Crap, I smell whiskey on his breath.
He rubs himself up against me. I am mentally exhausted from everything, so I feel nothing as his hands roam over my body. If I just let him have his way with me, I can keep him happy and then get some sleep.
He massages my breasts and roughly pinches my nipples under my nightgown, and before I know it, his finger is inside me. He is never gentle anymore, just forceful and demanding.
He pulls down my pants and starts to push his hardness into me. I’m not wet, but that doesn’t stop him. He pushes harder, causing pain, and then he’s inside, thrusting harder and harder.
I’m sure earlier on, I mattered, but now, Mike never cares about my needs, so I massage my own clit. I need something in return for being his two-dollar hooker, um, I mean his wife. I dream of anyone else until I feel my release building.
Mike thrusts harder as I work my clit faster, and we come undone together. My orgasm is toe-curling and just what I needed. A release from his overbearing, aggressive ways.
He pulls out and rolls over.
He is snoring within minutes.
It will get back to normal soon, Sienna, I tell myself.
He is only drinking whiskey because work is stressful with many new clients and business meetings.
Tomorrow is a new day.
I eventually fall asleep. Always the optimist, that’s me, but how much negativity can an optimistic person take before they become lost in the waves of the pessimistic void?
MORE TO LIFE.
As I spend my days in the same routine of cleaning an already immaculate house and washing and ironing Mike’s work clothes, I make my shopping list and think of the things I miss in my life.
Socializing! I’m on my own so much lately that it’s playing havoc with my mind. I miss my friends, but I guess I’m avoiding questions I don’t want to answer. I make a note in my diary to drop into the hospital and say hello next week.
I miss my mom’s hugs, and we are overdue for dinner, though I usually speak to Mom each week, and of course, I talk to my cousin Sara, who is also my best friend. I open up to her about most things in life. Well, I used to. I just don’t know how to add to our chats about fashion, movies, gossip, and say oh, by the way, my perfect husband is actually an abusive psychopath. But he’s okay this month.
Um, right now that conversation is not happening….
I miss my independence and my successful career. As a registered nurse, I was highly regarded before Mike and I became serious. Helping others and making a difference in the world was something I loved to do. Whenever I had a child patient, it was so rewarding to stop their pain and make them feel better. Giving them a small teddy bear when they were discharged was a magical moment that they cherished.
But of course, I gave away my career for love.
“No wife of mine will be working night shifts, tending to patients and other people when her husband needs her more than they do,” Mike announced to me after we moved in together. I’m not one who likes confrontation, but I was actually speechless.
“I want you home when I get home from work. I want dinner on the table, and I will look after you financially.” His words at the time sounded caring and thoughtful.
Now I see them as controlling and selfish. Why did I have to give up something I loved …?
My goal in life is to get back to work. I just don’t know how I will get around my husband yet, but I’m hoping to find a way.
As I’m dusting and wiping down Mike’s office desk, I find three empty whiskey glasses, but this is becoming a regular occurrence. Every time I mention the excess drinking, he disregards it or says, “Work is busy and stressful.”
I notice a locked drawer and wonder why I had never seen that before.
My mind races. Why would he need to lock something up? What is he hiding from me?
I will investigate more another day. Crap, it’s already 11:30. I need to get to the store.
I quickly finish up what I was doing and decide to vacuum when I get home. After touching up my powder and lipstick, I drive the short distance to the mall.
My list is short and sweet, so I grab a basket, not needing a shopping cart.
When I’m in the best aisle in the world, the baking items aisle, looking for my favorite caramel and in my own little world, I don’t even notice her until she collides into me. She looks to be mid-twenties with long dark hair and porcelain skin. Very pretty.
“Crap, I’m sorry. It’s all about the chocolate,” I say jokingly, assuming all women have a chocolate addiction.
“I don’t touch the stuff. It will go straight to your hips,” she replies oddly. The way she is looking at me is quite condescending. Her eyelashes flutter, and her eyebrows raise. Do I know her?
“Sorry, do I know you?” I question.
“No, you don’t,” she answers, then walks off in her tiny suit dress and stiletto heels. God, that was an odd conversation.
Did I imagine that, or did she accentuate the you don’t know me?
What does that mean? I don’t know her, but someone does?
Does she mean Mike? Does my husband know this gorgeous, feisty woman dressed in a sexy little number?
And just how well do they know each other?
I’m feeling a little pissed off.
When I finish my shopping, I drive home and immediately dig into my block of caramel chocolate. “Watch me eat this, bitch. I hope it goes straight to my hips,” I say out loud, then I giggle at my immaturity.
The chocolate has calmed me, satisfying my craving, so when Mike arrives home, I do my best to act normal and natural.
I greet him as usual with a hug and kiss.
“How was work today?” I inquire, trying to be cool.
“It was shithouse,” he announces. Oh great, he is already in a bad mood. He heads straight for the whiskey, so I decide not to push for the identity of the chick giving me death stares at the supermarket.
“Keep my dinner in the oven. I have a work meeting,” he declares. He doesn’t apologize for not telling me; he just states it matter-of-factly.
“Okay, I can do that. I defrosted an apple pie so keep room for dessert,” I add, hoping to win my way in through his stomach if not his heart lately.
“That’s unnecessary, Sienna. You shouldn’t be having that either.”
Mike leaves at five thirty p.m., so I enjoy the quiet meal, and then take a bubble bath, read some of my new book, then scroll for something to
watch on Netflix.
When he collapses into bed at one a.m., I stay silent, and my prayers are answered as he falls right to sleep, reeking of booze, smoke, and god knows what else.
Someone is going to feel like death tomorrow.
***
When Mike’s alarm sounds, I wake and climb out of bed; his morning rule is I need to make him coffee and toast while he showers. Seems reasonable from a coffee drinker’s perspective.
I make his coffee strong and black, just how he likes it, and then I realize he isn’t in the shower. Dammit. “Shit, Mike, you have to get up for work, babe,” I say as he’s slept later than he should.
“Go away,” he tells me; obviously, he’s hungover or tired from drinking the night before. This is not going to end well.
I know he has a meeting in an hour, so unfortunately, I need to persist.
“Mike, honey, you are meeting with Samuel, so you have to take your shower,” I announce to him, trying to help him.
Something I have said finally clicks, and he seems to realize what I’ve said.
“You turned off my alarm, you cow,” he yells angrily.
Wow, here we go.
“I did not. You must have hit snooze,” I reply, defending myself. I would never do such a thing.
He angrily throws his pillow, hitting me in the chest and totally catching me by surprise again. Then he jumps up, looking furious, and bolts into the bathroom. After he slams the door, he bangs around in the shower like a damn hormonal teenager. I have never heard so much swearing. Who the hell is this imposter, and where is the man I married?
“Your fresh coffee is in the kitchen,” I call out and make myself scarce. I don’t know what to expect next, but I’m not hanging around to find out. I’ve seen full force what he is capable of, and I never want to relive that again.
I hide in the laundry room and put a load of towels into the washing machine. Feeling on edge, I hope he doesn’t corner me in here, but thank god, he finally leaves when the front door shuts.
I run and latch the safety lock, then I slide down the wall and burst into tears.
I love my life.
I love my life.
I love my life.
I tell myself over and over…
POINTING OUT MY FAULTS
Over the next few days, Mike’s behavior takes a turn for the better. In my own head, though, I have to be perfect. Meals are hot and ready as soon as he walks in the door, clothes pristine as always, and the house is shining and immaculate.
I make an extra effort to dress nice and try to be the perfect Stepford wife. Inside is a different story.
“I hope you like your dinner. I’ve made rump steak with mushroom gravy, green beans, and mashed potatoes,” I announce as I place his plate down across from mine.
My steak is perfect; however, my standards, apparently, aren’t up to par as he is not happy.
“God, Sienna, any wife of mine should be able to make a steak exactly the way I like it. This is way too chewy and overcooked, and the sauce shouldn’t be lumpy. Can’t you do anything right?” Mike yells at me and throws his plate. It smashes against the wall and sends the food flying.
When he storms off and slams his office door, I’m left to clean up the delicious meal I spent hours cooking off the wall and floor. I cut myself on the plate and welcome the sight of blood. I am human, and yes, I do bleed. I get a Band-Aid and sit down to finish my own meal, though I’m not as hungry as I was earlier.
Mike comes out with a sheet of paper.
“You are signed up for these cooking classes starting Wednesday night. You will learn to cook better and discover new recipes rather than your boring ones.” He hands me the paper with the registration details.
Sure, I feel inadequate and belittled, but I take the paper and read the classes.
Wednesday
Lesson 1 – How to cook steak, beef, pork.
Rare, medium, and well done.
Thursday
Lesson 2 – Perfecting your vegetables
Crisp, crunchy
Friday
Lesson 3 – Sauces and gravy
Then the following week is another timetable.
“Okay, Mike. If this will make you happy, I will learn to cook better,” I declare to keep the peace.
I must admit, I am actually looking forward to getting out of the house, away from him, and possibly socializing.
“Do you realize it’s in Louis Valley, and it will take me an hour to drive there? I would have to leave by six and wouldn’t get home till ten p.m.”
“Yes, of course, I realize that. You can cook for me during the day and have dinner ready,” he answers matter-of-factly. “I have a few work projects going on, so I will probably go into the office when you are in your classes.”
“Okay,” I reply a little puzzled.
Is he trying to get rid of me?
My gut is telling me something doesn’t sound right, but I won’t dig any deeper.
The next day, I go to the store to get groceries, and I stop by my regular coffee shop to order my cappuccino, needing a boost. Two bags on each arm, I’m feeling flustered.
Laughter has caught my attention. A group of four ladies talking, laughing, and enjoying each other’s company are sitting at one of the tables and having a great time.
Jealousy hits me.
I really miss girly chats and women in general! Mike has done such a good job keeping me busy, running errands, etc. that I’ve lost the chance to socialize. He’s isolated me. Is he that manipulative? Why else would he do that?
I cook satay chicken, rice, and vegetables. It’s Wednesday, so dinner is finished early, and I have it hot and waiting.
After he eats, Mike is sipping on scotch and working on his laptop when I enter his office. He clicks out of something and stands to tell me farewell.
I really enjoy the scenic drive. There are some beautiful green hills, a few herds of cows, and farmhouses. The traffic isn’t busy, and it’s a mostly straight drive approaching the school district. I pull into the street and driveway of the local college where the classes are being held. I’m early but decide to head in.
As I enter the foyer, there is a large chalkboard, I skim past the other classes and find mine.
Welcome to Louis Valley Community College
Classes this week are:
*Learn to cook – Intermediate – Room 4
‘How to market your new business.’ is written on the whiteboard in Room 3.
How exciting. Having my own business is always something I’ve always wanted to do. I find myself curious at the topics on the whiteboard.
“Can I help you?” A man’s voice brings me back to reality.
Oh crap, I didn’t mean to be noticeable or obvious.
“So sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’m starting the cooking class next door,” I stutter, feeling a little embarrassed.
“No problem at all,” he replies in a deep husky voice.
I’m suddenly feeling a little warm as I notice just how good looking this business studies teacher is. He’s young too; he must be only thirty, thirty-five max. Or maybe I’m just old.
His blue eyes linger on mine, so I make a run for it.
“Sorry again. Bye,” I whisper, feeling embarrassed.
Not that I was interested, but it turns out he wrote his name on the whiteboard.
Mr. Rossi, Ethan Rossi.
What a great name. It has a nice ring to it.
Those eyes … I can’t describe the shade of blue, sky blue maybe.
I finally get to room 4, and a lady in an apron is there setting up.
“Hi there, I’m Anne, the cooking teacher. Welcome to the class,” she announces in a warm, welcoming voice. It’s clear she has an old soul.
Class one is amazing. Anne is the most calm and relaxed teacher; I’m anything but calm when I’m cooking. Usually, I’m a hot mess trying to get meat, vegetables, and rice to cook while trying not to burn the gravy.
/> I like my steak medium, so following Anne’s instructions with just the right amount of frying, oil, and heat, my filet was to die for. I can’t wait to make it for Mike.
“Well done, class. See you tomorrow,” Anne announces as we finish our dishes. I feel happy as I walk out. I prolong it the drive home, not knowing what I’ll find with my husband.
“How did your first class go?” I hear a male’s voice question as I walk past.
I glance in the direction of the voice. How ironic. It’s room number three, the business studies teacher.
“I really enjoyed it. See you later,” I say. I need to get on the road.
I decide to listen to an audiobook on the drive this time. It’s a Danielle Steele book, and I love it so far. The drive is calming and relaxing. The hero actually makes me swoon, so alpha male, but he is sensitive to her needs. Fiction beats reality right now.
Me: I’m home. Where are you?
No reply.
That’s strange.
I make my way inside and unlock the apartment door, kicking off my shoes and placing the keys on the hook. I check in Mike’s office. His laptop is still here, so I wonder if he is using the work one tonight.
I decide to shower. I have a cooking scent about me. Plus, there is something about my lavender body wash that I love applying just before climbing into bed. The simple things.
Feeling fresh, clean, and relaxed, I put on my pajamas and climb into bed. I forget about Mike and his absence; the quiet and calm in this house is welcomed. I must have dozed off because the next thing I’m woken to is a smashing sound. What the hell? I sit upright and find the time is 1:09 a.m.
Shit, I got home at ten. It must be Mike, but why is he so late, and what did he smash?
I slide on my slippers and slowly creep out to see what is going on. “Mike, is that you?” I call out. God, what if it’s a burglar?
My heart races.
“Mike,” I say again with no response.