Immigration

He went away one weekend and he didn’t want me going out. So he took all my clothes. He took everything. He even emptied my underwear drawer.

I was left naked in the flat. I couldn’t even answer the door.

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 called it my escape fund, tucked away at the back of my wardrobe, hidden behind my clothes. He never bothered to look there.

Any spare change I had went straight into my secret stash.

One day, I’d save up enough to break free, to find my own place away from him.

She would leave money on the table. It made me feel cheap that she would never give it to me. Said it was for the shopping. I had to make it stretch, get everything on her list, no excuses.

Sometimes, though, it wasn’t enough, and I’d have to beg or steal to get everything. Couldn’t go back without it all, it made her mad.

I tried to use it once to make a break for it, but she tracked me down. There was no escape.

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 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.