I remember having this page in my notebook where I scribbled ‘NOT REAL’ over and over again. He kept insisting I’d done things I hadn’t, trying to make me believe I was a bad person. I scribbled so hard, my pen went through the page. It was like all the shouting inside me found its way out onto that paper.

Scribble

I remember having this page in my notebook where I scribbled ‘NOT REAL’ over and over again.

He kept insisting I’d done things I hadn’t, twisting my words, warping my memories, making me doubt myself.

“You said it, don’t lie to me.”
“You did it, don’t pretend you don’t remember.”
“You always do this.”

It was relentless.

At first, I argued. Told him he was wrong. That I’d never said that, never done that. But he just shook his head, smirking like I was pathetic.

And the more he repeated it, the more I started to wonder. Did I?

I knew the truth. I did. But the way he looked at me, the way he spoke with such certainty—he made me feel like I was losing my mind. Like I was a bad person.

So I wrote it down.

I needed proof, needed something solid to hold onto.

NOT REAL.

I scribbled the words over and over again, pressing the pen so hard the ink bled through.

NOT REAL. NOT REAL. NOT REAL.

My hand ached, my grip tight, my knuckles white. I kept going, kept scratching at the page like I could tear his voice out of my head.

I scribbled so hard, my pen went through the page.

It was like all the shouting inside me found its way out onto that paper.

But it didn’t stop him.

And no matter how many times I wrote it, he still made me feel like maybe—just maybe—he was right.

share this story:

More stories

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

He always threaten to tell immigration about me and send me back, even though I here legally. Just the idea of being reported would mess up my job and seeing my kids. He know this, but he don’t care. He just want to hurt me, to make me feel scared and powerless.

It feel like he got all the power, and I can’t do nothing.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Scribble

More stories

Subscribe To Our Newsletter