At first, it was just a bit of harmless fun, just a game we played. But he started leaving for longer periods. He would go to the pub. I was scared. I dreaded his return and what he might do. I didn’t know what state he would be in. Sometimes he would bring other men home. To use me for fun or to pay off his debts. I would lay there. I couldn’t run away. I wanted it to stop. I wanted to die.

Handcuffs

At first, it was just a bit of harmless fun, just a game we played.

That’s what he told me, anyway. A joke. A bit of excitement. Something just between us.

And I believed him.

It started with small things—him tying my wrists together, seeing how long I could stay still, whispering in my ear how much he loved having control. I told myself it was normal. That it meant he wanted me. That it was just another part of love.

But then the rules of the game changed.

He started leaving for longer periods. He would go to the pub. He never said when he’d be back, never answered his phone, just disappeared, leaving me alone in that flat, waiting.

I was scared.

I dreaded his return and what he might do. I didn’t know what state he would be in. Drunk? Angry? Playful? It was always a gamble. I never knew until he walked through the door, his eyes clouded, his breath thick with alcohol.

Then came the nights he didn’t come home alone.

Sometimes he would bring other men with him. At first, it was just to show me off. To humiliate me. To remind me I belonged to him.

But then it became something else.

They started using me for fun. Or to pay off his debts.

I would lay there.

I couldn’t run away.

There was nowhere to go, no way to fight back. The first time, I screamed. The second time, I begged. The third time, I just closed my eyes and let it happen.

I stopped thinking. Stopped feeling.

I wanted it to stop.

I wanted to die.

But the worst part?

He still called it a game.

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UNSEEN ECHOES - Objects of Domestic Abuse | Photography Project & Exhibition

I had no freedom. I couldn’t even choose what I was going to wear. She did all of that.

She would leave clothes out on the bed for me. She even picked out what socks I would wear. I was more her fashion accessory. Just there to fit her image.

It’s humiliating when I look back at it. I couldn’t be me.

He would put sleeping powder in my drink. I’d wake up confused, not knowing what happened or where I was. Sometimes, I’d also feel pain, you know, down there. Maybe it was a good thing in a way, because I wouldn’t remember what he did.

But it still left me feeling violated and scared.

The bastard made a sign out of cardboard, labeling me with the word ‘SLUT’, and forced me to parade down the street carrying it. I was so mad, humiliated. All because I spoke to another man? I couldn’t believe how cruel he could be.

After that, I was too ashamed to even leave the house. How dare he treat me like that? It was like he was trying to strip away everything. I won’t let him get away with it.

I painted the bathroom mirror with black paint. I just couldn’t face looking at myself anymore. He kept saying I was ugly every day. Not just once. Every time he looked at me he said it. I heard it so much I believed it. I couldn’t go out. I couldn’t even look at myself.

We would go places, and she’d tell me I wasn’t there, that I imagined it. One time, we went to the beach, and I had a photo of the sunset.

She said she took it to show her friend because I wasn’t there. But I knew I was. Did I really make it up? It made me doubt my own memories, like I didn’t know what was real.

I would run and sit by the river. One day, I’ll be free, one way or another. Somewhere where nobody can hurt me.

Life is just too hard here. I don’t want to be here anymore.

I don’t want to be anywhere anymore.

Handcuffs

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