Hate

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Reflections on love gone wrong.
875 words
3.5
12.9k
1
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Sitting here, in a cold, damp room, makes me think of you. This place is the perfect metaphor for our nonexistence together. Uncomfortable and lonely, chilly, awkward and disgusting. 'Us' was born out of convenience, neither of us wanting to admit we would have a hard time finding anything else, and yet seemingly happy with the situation at hand, we disappeared from the view of our friends and family, off into the setting sun.

They liked the smiles enough to see past the bruises we left on each other, both of us fighting dirty, our skin becoming mottled with bright new bruises, green and yellow older bruises, long red gashes and thick white scars. You would throw me into a wall, I'd hit you with a lamp, on and on it went. Thank god we never brought children into our relationship. They say abused women become hidden away from their family, friends and other contacts, but I threw everything into the faces of those who told me this would be the happiest time of my life.

This is what they had planned for me from day one. I would be the perfect little housewife, they said, as they watched me play with my kitchen set, but when I got older they would not eat the food I cooked. It didn't suit their tastes because I refused to slave away in the kitchen for hours to cook something that didn't perfectly suit my own tastes. Their whole lives seemed redundant and stupid to me, but no matter. The only real way to leave, to get them to leave me alone, was to marry someone suitable.

You thought I was a challenge, unable to give in to your sedimentary ways. I fought from day one, and you found it charming. A perfect match, I was led to believe. You would keep me on my toes, and I would keep your mind sharp. Then I bit and pinched and kicked, and you tried to hold me down. The more you held, the more I fought, until we were both tired and bleeding. I fell asleep in your arms for the first time that night, out of sheer exhaustion, and when I woke up I spat in your face.

You refused to admit I was too much for you to control, and I refused to be controlled. You told me to stay at home, do this and that as a good wife should, and I simply left for days, weeks at a time. I came home, we fought, I left again. But at least I was faithful. I'm not sure I could say the same for you. The times I was home, you stayed late at the office. Or someplace else. Either way, it really doesn't matter. I suppose a man with such a strong sex drive had to get it from somewhere.

I still refuse to admit I might've been the weaker one, the one who couldn't leave. What else was I going to do? You were my hobby, my pastime, my only extracurricular activity. I dropped everything else to be with you. You were the only thing that could take me away. I couldn't stand their lack of abuse of each other. So perfectly polite so much of the time.

We are the other end of the extreme, practically killing each other at every possible chance. You never bring friends home, ashamed of what I might say or do in front of them. I never have any friends. I've become quite catty, quite the little bitch. Bitter at our lack of a relationship, bitter at our lack of existence, I don't get along with many women, and you hate to have me unsupervised with other men. Maybe someday I'll get away, but not any time soon.

Now, to keep me from leaving, you lock me in this cellar while you're at work. No windows, just a simple stairway up to the door, with no way to get at the lock from this side. Cold, damp and alone, just like always. My once manicured nails have been chewed to the quick, and my once beautiful hair has become tangled and stringy. I used to wear makeup and perfume and nice clothing. Now I barely cover my body with pieces of clothing I've pieced together, trying to make myself as disgusting as I can for you. When I cook for you, I rotate burning and undercooking, rarely ever fixing a decent meal.

This is what has become of me, the girl who could've gone to college, the girl who could've led a movement, the best at sports, the one voted Most Likely To Succeed. At least, I would've if I'd graduated.

Instead, I met you, and you swept me as much off my feet as any male to that point had. You fought back. You fought as dirty as I did. When I bit, you bit back, and left marks as painful looking as I did. All my life, I'd been looking for someone who could force me down, make me realize my own level, and then I found you. But you forced me down far too far, and I passed my own level a long time ago.

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Aborted_WonderlandAborted_Wonderlandover 16 years ago
Beautiful

I really enjoyed this, rather it's based on fact or fiction is an enigma to me at this point. Nonetheless it seemed to fill a need within me. I wanted something raw and real, there are far too many fairytale love stories in this world. I'd much rather have this than that un-godly bullshit. Thank you for sharing.

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