Clothes On Bed

She had this diary, but it wasn’t for remembering fun stuff or happy times. Nope, it was all about the times I messed up. Every little mistake or thing I did wrong, she’d write it down like it was some kind of crime.

It felt like she never missed a chance to point out my mistakes, but when it came to the good stuff? Forget about it. It’s like it never even happened.

It made me feel like I couldn’t do anything right, always walking on eggshells around her.

I loved that bench. It became my sanctuary, a place where I could find peace away from the chaos. I couldn’t stay for too long though, he would notice I was gone and come looking for me.

Those precious moments were all I needed. A sense of calm that I could hold onto.

That photo album meant everything to me. He cut me off from everyone, even my own kids. And that album, it was my only escape, my link to happier times. But now, even that feels tainted, like I’m losing everything that mattered to me.

It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.

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.

She’d snatch my phone every chance she got, always poking around in it, reading my messages, and checking who I’d called. It felt like I had no space to breathe, no privacy at all.

My phone wasn’t just a device anymore; it was a leash, and she held the other end tight. Freedom? Forget about it.

I was at work one day when she sent me a photo of a clown. It was not to be funny, but she said it looked like me.

She was always saying bad things about how I dressed. I couldn’t forget it. I kept thinking, maybe other people think the same. It made me feel bad, like I was not good enough.