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

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 used to leave flowers in the window, like my own secret signal to the world. It felt comforting, like a silent message saying I was okay.

But on days when I forgot, I got scared. What if someone noticed the missing flowers and came looking? What would happen if she answered the door? She would find out what I was doing.

I still put flowers in my window now. Now that I am safe. I just want to let people know.

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 wasn’t allowed on the bed. Every night, I’d try to sneak onto it, hoping for a moment of comfort, but she’d always shove me off.

I made it as comfortable as I could, with a cushion and a blanket, but it still felt like I was being treated like an animal. Lying there, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being less than human, undeserving of even a basic place to sleep.

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 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.

Handcuffs

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