His Hurtful Love

Gwen

"Daddy please don't hurt mummy, please! Please daddy, I'm begging you, alright? Waaaah, daddy, mummy can't breath anymore!" I could barely hear my four year old daughter, Kayla, pleading for her dad to stop strangling me. The dararkness was slowly engulfing me, dragging me into its cold embrace.

Then suddenly, a rush of air bombarded my lungs, almost choking me as I greedily inhaled it. The grim reaper wasn't interested in my miserable life anymore, I suppose. My coughing subsided, but my chest still heaved as though I had sprinted through a marathon.

Gradually, my vision cleared and I looked up, only to see my mother-in-law sneering and my husband glaring at me. Kayla was a sobbing mess, the maid was cowering in a corner, shivering as if she's standing in the North Pole. "Come here baby," I extended my trembling hands, and my little girl threw herself into my arms. But my voice sounded like rusty metals grinding together. Thanks to my dear husband's strangulation.

Kayla trembled and bit her lip so hard that it bled. Even at four years old, she wasn’t allowed to cry, or she’d have it from her father. I tried to hum a lullaby as I rocked her, but my throat refused to cooperate. The brute had nearly rearranged all the bones in my neck.

I gave up on singing and kept rocking Kayla whilst shushing her quietly. What no one knew was, I was rocking myself to sleep as well. It looked like I was comforting my daughter, but only I knew that I was deriving warmth from the little bundle curled in my embrace, shivering like a scared rabbit.

"See, what you made me do, now, Gwen! Are you happy to see our daughter scared like this?" Mason bellowed, whilst pointing a trembling finger at my forehead. "I'm sorry... I will not do it again." I tried to speak but it was just a barely audible hoarse whisper. But I guess he understood, the pleading in my eyes.

"Yeah, right. Never make me angry again. You know I love you, babe, but sometimes I hate it when you try to control me." There it was again, his favorite excuse. It was always me who made him hurt me. I just shook my head and kept my thoughts to myself, suppressing the nausea threatening to rise.

“Oh, Mason darling, let her be,” his mother sneered. “She’s ungrateful and doesn’t understand what it means to be a woman. She thinks that just because she’s pregnant she can be willful? As Mason’s mother, I never ask him why he comes home late. But you, a housewife, dare to question my son? You even took your sweet time unlocking the gate? Serves you right. No woman can control my son!” That was my dear mother-in-law spitting her daily venom.

Kayla eventually fell asleep but she was whimpering even in her dreams. I wanted to take her to her room but my "gentle husband" carried her instead. "Let me carry her, babe. You're pregnant and can't tire yourself." I forced a smile that was worse than a scowl. Now he knows that I'm pregnant, huh? I mused but kept a straight face. He disappeared upstairs with her, and I followed slowly, my steps echoing my pain.

"Goodnight, Mama." I whispered as I forced myself to stand up from the lounge floor heading upstairs to our bedroom. “You’d better keep what happened to yourself,” my mother-in-law warned coldly. “You know what awaits you if you dare talk. You’re just an orphan, rescued from waiting tables by my kind-hearted son. Know your place!”

I grimaced inwardly but forced a small nod and obedient smile. I had no choice. If I went against either Mason or his mother, there would be no peace for me. Each step toward the bedroom was a battle of will. Sheer determination drove me forward, though every bruise screamed in protest. I swallowed my pain and kept walking.

It’s true, I was an orphan, or rather, abandoned at the gates of an orphanage. I started waiting tables at sixteen, and by eighteen, when the orphanage could no longer keep me, I moved out. Mason saved me from a brothel and married me. Even now, I don’t know whether I was grateful or in love. Maybe I confused the two.

"Careful, babe. Let me help you up." I numbly extended my hand as Mason pulled me up and led me to our bedroom. My breathing was erratic and my whole body was hurting, but I could not tell him or he would snap again. After every beating, I had to suck it up and smile through the pain or I would suffer another round of unrestrained beatings. At times, I could not tell which Mason I was married to, the lover or the monster.”

He helped me out of my torn dress, and I heard him suck in a sharp breath. Then, in an almost broken voice, he said, “I’m sorry, Kitty. You shouldn’t make me mad. See? Your body’s all blue and black now, because you upset me. You know that when you’re good, I’d never lay a hand on you. Here, let me help you put on your nightdress.”

And he did, tenderly, as if I were porcelain. I knew what would follow: his long monologue about how much he loved me, how much he regretted that I made him so angry. Then he would shower me with kisses and force himself on me, claiming that was proof of his love. Tonight was no different.

After his speech came the kisses. He kissed every bruise, looking utterly miserable. “A kiss for every bruise,” he whispered, his breath warm against my skin. “Baby, I want you. You know I’ve got the hots for you, and I can never get it up for anyone else.” What did I do? I went through the motions, groaning in pain while he mistook it for pleasure.

You might wonder why I did not refuse. How could I? I had refused before, back when his violence first showed. I paid dearly for it. Two days of torture taught me never to say no again. Refusing him meant I must be cheating. So, I stopped daring and allowed him to toss me around to his heart's content.

My chest felt tight. I couldn’t breathe. I tried calling his name, but he thought I was moaning for more. I patted his back weakly, but he only groaned, “Yes, Kitty... I know you feel me. I feel you too, baby.” I gave up trying. And when the darkness came for me again, I didn’t fight it. Everything became still, no sound, no pain, no light. As the darkness swallowed me whole, I wondered if this was death at last, or just another reprieve.