I was 22 when I met him.
So desperate for love, so ready to believe in a fairytale.
He was the perfect dream—romantic, attentive, kind.
He loved me out loud, never shouted, never got angry.
Every broken girl’s fantasy.
I was the perfect victim, and I didn’t even know it.
It took me two years to see the monster behind the mask.
Two years before I had a ring on my finger marking me as his.
It didn’t start with slaps or hits.
No—it began with subtle words, quiet jealousy.
By the time he finally laid his hands on me,
I was a trained puppy, a “good little girl” who thought I deserved it.
Deserved to have a 6’2”, 200-pound man punch a 5’1”, 100-pound woman in the face, knock her to the fucking ground like she was nothing.
Because I was nothing, he made me nothing.
And of course, the next day, like every abuser, he bought me flowers.
The hollow promises followed:
“I’ll never do it again.”
“I’ll try harder.”
“I love you.”
“I’m sorry.”
And I believed him—because I loved him.
But nothing changed.
The second time, it wasn’t love keeping me tethered.
It was fear.
Threats started.
He made sure I knew: if I left, he would find me.
He would kill me.
And I believed him.
So I endured the hits and tried harder.
He became an expert at hiding bruises where others couldn’t see.
I learned to watch his face, read his moods.
But even I could slip up.
Even I could be overcome by excitement and forget the rules, especially when it came to seeing my best friend.
A simple thing: my feet resting on my best friend’s knees while we watched a movie.
I didn’t think.
I didn’t consider how dangerous a smile could be.
That night, he didn’t hit me.
He raped me.
He laughed silently at my helplessness, knowing if I screamed, one of them would be dead or in jail, and it would be my fault.
He mocked me, knowing my choice.
So I turned away, let the tears fall silently, and endured. The ghost that was left of me shattered by this cruel, final act.
But this wasn’t what made me leave.
No—I stayed longer.
Played the game, the good little wife.
Matched myself to his moods and whims.
Gaged his looks, felt his churning moods, and disappeared into myself when the hits came.
But this night—this night I thought I did good.
No signs, no shaking hands, no evil smiles—only a mask that fooled everyone but me.
When we got home, I thought I was safe.
But I wasn’t.
A smile.
A fucking smile at another man.
That was all it took.
I was beaten so badly, black and blue and bloody all over.
I just wanted it to end.
I hoped he would kill me.
He must have sensed it.
That moment of fear on his face was the spark that turned it around for me.
What finally gave me fire.
Because I had no hope, but fire—I could work with.
Fire—I could breathe.
Fire—I could become.
It took years, but when I finally escaped,
it wasn’t in secret—it was in defiance.
When he called me a whore,
I looked him dead in the eyes and said,
“I’d rather be a whore than your wife.”
For once, he looked like I hit him.
He was afraid—afraid of me, afraid of who I was and what I could do to him.
I stayed hidden for years, still married, terrified that if I divorced him, he would find me and kill me.
I used prepaid debit cards, burner phones, mail sent elsewhere.
But I learned other things too.
I learned to defend myself with my hands and feet, as well as guns and knives.
Little by little, I got my courage back.
It took twelve years.
And just when I was ready to find him to divorce him, he died of a drug overdose.
Something he never needed when he was with me.
I’ve never felt crazier than in those moments after hearing the news.
One second laughing, because I was finally free.
The next, crying, mourning the man he made me fall in love with.
The worst was the picture his family picked for the obituary.
It was from our wedding day.
But they cut me out—like I never existed.
Like I was a fragment of the perfect world they wanted to pretend away.
I became obsessed with that obituary for about a month—wanted to scream at the lies everyone was telling, to tell them about the monster he truly was.
But what good would it do?
They wouldn’t care.
They wouldn’t believe.
They only knew the sweet man he showed the world, and the drug addict he became.
I was finally free.
But even a ghost of a man can haunt you.
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