A Horror Story

A Horror Story

The moon illuminated half of his face, transforming him into a creature I can only describe as an angel of vengeance- beautiful, and at the same time scary, his face was as cold and distant as that of the moon’s light. His magnificent gaze was bearing down on me, and I couldn’t help but notice how even when he has is beautiful face contoured in rage- rage directed at me, even when he has blood- my blood, splattered over his white designer tees (that would be hard to get out), even when he his breathing so hard , because he just finished battering my face- even at that, he still looks perfect to me. So, maybe he is a monster, he is still my husband, and I love him.

Hi, my name is Rose, and maybe I’m a victim of domestic violence, but, I don’t think of it as that. I love my husband very much, and he makes me really happy. Everything he does is for my sake, and I know. Every time he corrects me, it’s for the betterment of our marriage, and I believe that every time he corrects me, I deserve it.

I remember this one time he came to pick me up from my place of work, and he drove us straight to the airport. Yes, I protested that I didn’t have my passport, or a luggage packed, he said he already covered all those, and not to worry at all. Our two weeks together in Abu Dhabi was the best two weeks of my life. He showered me with so much love and attention that it was almost overwhelming. He said he wanted us to spend some time together, just us- no cell phones, no pagers, just us. Boy was it magical!

So, what if my beautiful man transforms into a monster when I say “no” to him? What if he takes me to hell with his fist when dinner isn’t ready in time? What if he decides to have his way forcefully when I tell him I’m dead beat at night from a long day at work? What if?? He gets his down days too just like everyone. It did say for better for worse in our marriage vows.

Now, I’m sitting in a hospital bed, yet again. I must have passed out at some point, I don’t remember. The doctor just left, shaking his head for me. He asked me how I sustained my multiple fractures- some healed, others not, as reflected by my x-ray result, and the bruises on my face. I told him I tripped and fell down the stairs. He didn’t believe me, and I don’t care.

It’s usually a different hospital every time. My fear is that at this rate, we would run out of good hospitals in the city.

I know from experience my love will come see me. He will apologize, and with tears in his eyes, he will admit to me how he has anger issues, and he will swear to me that he will work on- for my sake, for our sake. He will sign my discharge papers, and he will stretch out his hand for me to take. Hope and fear will chase each other across his face, while he waits for me to make up my mind. It’s almost as if his very existence depends on my answer. With his hand outstretched, he will say “Let’s go home baby”, and while the doctors and nurses look on, with disapproving looks on their judgmental faces, as if to say “No, don’t go with the monster”. He might be a monster, but he is my monster. So, I’ll take his outstretched hand, smile at him and say “It’s about time”

And the cycle begins again.

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