Clown

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.

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.

I was out chilling with my mates when my phone rang. It was her, and she sounded really messed up, saying she’d hurt herself if I didn’t come back.

When I got back, I found her in the bathroom, knives lying there like some horror movie. It freaked me out big time.

After that, I felt like I had to stay close, like I was responsible for her. I couldn’t even hang out with my friends without worrying about what might happen when I wasn’t there.

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.

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.