Washing up

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.

He would make me tell him all the things I had done wrong that day. Then he would hit me for them.

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.

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 would run and sit by the river. One day, I’ll be free, one way or another. Somewhere where nobody can hurt me.

Life is just too hard here. I don’t want to be here anymore.

I don’t want to be anywhere anymore.

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.

He didn’t even bother to ask. He just went ahead and sold our home, uprooting us from everything I knew. We left behind my friends and family, the people I relied on for support and love. It hurt so much.

He called it our “new life,” but it felt like he was tearing me away from everything that mattered. It left me feeling lost and alone, I had nobody else but him.

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.