He would put a chair in the kitchen and make me sit on it. If I refused, he would push me down and tie me to it.
The first time, I tried to laugh it off, told him he was being ridiculous. That didn’t go well. He shoved me into the seat so hard the back legs scraped against the tiled floor. My wrists burned as he wrapped something rough around them—an old belt, maybe a dish towel. I don’t remember.
I do remember what came next.
He would make me tell him all the things I had done wrong that day. Then he would hit me for them.
Some days, I could list a few things. I forgot to put the milk back in the fridge. I didn’t text him back quickly enough. I looked at him in a way he didn’t like.
Other days, I had nothing.
That was worse.
If I couldn’t think of anything, he would call me a liar and lock me in there until I thought of something. I had to think of something—even though I knew he was going to hit me anyway.
My mind would race, scrambling for mistakes, anything that would make him stop looking at me like that. Anything that might make it easier.
But it was never enough.
His voice would get sharper. His hands would tighten into fists. And eventually, when he got bored of waiting, the punishment would come anyway.
I lost track of how many times it happened.
The chair became a permanent fixture in the kitchen. Even when he wasn’t home, I couldn’t look at it without feeling sick.
One day, after he left for work, I dragged it out into the garden, poured lighter fluid over it, and set it on fire. I watched as the flames curled around the wood, turning it to blackened ash.
That night, he came home and asked where the chair was. I told him I didn’t know.
He hit me for lying.
But for the first time, it didn’t matter. The chair was gone.
And I knew I would be next.
