Two and a half years ago

It was getting late. The sun was waning in the sky, and dinner was getting cold.

I’d slaved over it for too long, something I regretted doing even while I was doing it. I knew Brandon wouldn’t appreciate it, and I knew he was most likely going to be late tonight. Why had I done this to myself?

At the dining room table, I stared at my hands. They were smooth and flawless, with perfectly manicured fingernails with bright, vivid pink painted perfectly over them. My wedding rings were shining, the diamonds reflecting against the light from the setting sun.

I had a lot to be thankful for. I could be alone, without this big house and nice car and fancy life. I could be struggling to pay rent, working a job I hated, like my mother did when I was growing up.

But as much as I tried, I took no comfort in material things. Instead, I fantasized about a life of struggle, as long as it meant being apart from him.

Another twenty minutes passed, and I heard the sound of the garage door opening. My head perked like a dog’s when it hears something it thinks could be a threat.

Keys in the door jingled, and then I heard his footsteps. My eyes flicked to the set table, to the food gone cold a long time ago. I wondered what this scene would look like to him as he made his way to the stairs.

He appeared out of nowhere, brown eyes taking in the set table, the pot of rice and rack of ribs I had made. His handsome face was like stone. Hard and cold.

“What is this?” he asked indifferently. As if it didn’t matter.

“I made you dinner,” I said, my voice small. I broke his gaze. It was not easy to look at him dead on for extended periods of time.

“Throw it away.”

I didn’t move. I should have.

“Michele,” he spat, and I looked at him again, if only to try to anticipate his mood. It was so hard to tell these days. “Throw this shit away.”

He didn’t give me time to think. He grabbed the pot of rice and flung it across the dining room, the sound of it hitting the wood floor like a gunshot in my ears. The lid rolled, bouncing against the wall and falling flat, defeated.

His hands were on me in a flash. I wasn’t quick enough to dodge him, and his grip was like ice and iron against my upper arm. He jerked me up out of my seat. There would be bruises tomorrow.

“Clean this shit up. Then get upstairs. It’s been a long day.”

It’s been a long day. That was his code for sex - and I swallowed, my mouth so dry I could barely breathe. My heart hammered in my chest, and he finally let me go, backing up and bounding up the stairs. A few moments later, the sound of the shower began from upstairs.

I cleaned up as quickly as I could, throwing the rice away but packing the ribs in a container. I could eat them for lunch tomorrow, if I had an appetite.

My arm was throbbing the entire time I worked. After I was done, I pulled a bottle of Blue Label out of the liquor cabinet and poured myself a shot, hands shaking as I capped it back up. I downed it quickly, forcing myself to believe that any amount of alcohol could numb the pain I was feeling, could dull what was to come.

If I didn’t hurry, he’d come find me. I swished some mouthwash in the guest bathroom so he wouldn’t taste the scotch and dragged myself upstairs to the master bedroom.

Brandon was still in the bathroom, and I sat on the massive king-sized bed, pulling off my rings and placing them on the nightstand. The picture of us on our wedding day stared at me. That day, I didn’t even have a care in the world. Now, I wondered if this was the kind of marriage he had wanted when he asked me to marry him.

The shot I had done was entering my bloodstream fast, but it wouldn’t last long.

“Why are you still dressed?”

The sound of his voice was like a whip to my joints, and I shot up off the bed quickly. He had opened the door, a towel wrapped around his waist, steam filtering out of the bathroom.

“I’m - I’m sorry. I only just now got done cleaning up.”

He sighed and shook his head, his expression softening. “I hate getting mad at you.” He strolled over to me, his hands reaching at me, their intentions unknown, and I stiffened.

“Michele, I’m sorry I grabbed you. I wasn’t thinking. I just - I worked a long day. Then I come home and see that?” He shook his head, as if the weight of his words were really hitting him, so steadfast in his righteousness. “You know it upsets me that I can’t be home for dinner with you.”

I forced myself to relax, letting him hold me, his skin warm and damp against me. He always apologized for hurting me - but nothing ever changed. For a split second, I allowed myself to believe that maybe this really was the last time.

I could feel him hardening beneath his towel, and felt a rush of fear. I didn’t want to sleep with him, but I never had a choice. His hands wandered to my shirt, fingers trailing underneath and up my belly. I closed my eyes.

“Let’s get you out of these clothes.”

I let it happen.