But sometimes, fighting back is the only proof I have that I’m still here.
That I’m still alive.
“What the fuck did you just say to me?”
Normally, I’d back down. Tactical retreat, as they call it. I went too far once already and this path will only lead to significant pain in my future.
But I’ve had a shit day and a shit life and for one brief fucking conversation at the very least, I want the man who causes so much of that shittiness to experience what it feels like to be on the receiving end.
“You heard me. You’re drunk right now,” I point out. “And it’s not even nine at night.”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything, eh?” he roars. “Night is night. I’m off work and I want to unwind. Relax. What I don’t want is a lecture from my bratty little wife.”
He likes doing that.
He likes using words like “bratty” and “childish” and “immature.” He likes reminding me that I was basically still a kid when I was forced to marry him.
He thinks that, because he’s been the entirety of my adult life, that he has some sort of twisted hold on me.
On my good days, I’m scared it might be true.
And on my bad ones, I feel it in my bones that it is.
“Fine. I’ll stop talking then.”
“This is the thanks I get?” he presses on, as if I hadn’t spoken. “I’ve given you a nice home, nice things. And you can’t even muster up a thank you. You can’t even look nice for me.”
I glance down at my sweats. “This doesn’t do it for you, baby?” I drawl sarcastically.
I laugh to myself and reach for another carrot, but he grabs the bag and flings it across the room.
Slamming both hands on the table, he leans in to me, his breath sour from the liquor.
“Stand up.”
“Tristan…”
“I’ve given you everything,” he snarls at me, the alcohol exacerbating his anger. “And you haven’t even been able to give me a child.”
I cringe back at his words, but I don’t want to hear this.
I’ve heard it too often in the last few years.
I get up and try to move past him, but he grabs me by the hand and pulls me towards him.
“Tristan, please…”
“It’s about time you gave me a fucking son.”
Ignore him, I tell myself. Just fucking ignore him.
Things always go a little better when I don’t engage.
But it’s harder than it seems to keep silent. It’s not in my nature to be so passive. It’s not in my nature to ignore a bully.
He shoves me back up against the kitchen counter and starts pawing at me.
“If you were wearing the fucking lingerie I bought you, I wouldn’t have to work so hard to get my cock hard.”