Washing up

I was at work one day when she sent me a photo of a clown. It was not to be funny, but she said it looked like me.

She was always saying bad things about how I dressed. I couldn’t forget it. I kept thinking, maybe other people think the same. It made me feel bad, like I was not good enough.

He would make me drink, sometimes beer, other times something stronger, depending on his mood. I learned that even if I didn’t drink, he still got what he wanted.

Sometimes, it felt easier to just go along with it and numb myself, to be out of it rather than feel what he was doing.

I loved that bench. It became my sanctuary, a place where I could find peace away from the chaos. I couldn’t stay for too long though, he would notice I was gone and come looking for me.

Those precious moments were all I needed. A sense of calm that I could hold onto.

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.

I had this book where I wrote down everything she did, like my own secret diary. But she found it, and she burned it all. All my words, all my proof, gone.

I felt so small, like I couldn’t do anything to stop her or prove what she did.

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.