He's the other half of me.
Our identities are entwined.
I used to find excuses for his actions; convince myself it wouldn't happen again. But it always happened again, and by the time I realized how bad it was, I couldn't leave.
Before I knew what happened, I had unknowingly pushed away anyone who ever cared about me. When the choice was Dylan or them, I always chose him. He was my priority. I just wanted to make him happy.
For the last seven years, I've had someone controlling me. I haven't made a decision as basic as picking out my own clothes since I met him. If I were on my own, I don't know if I would be able to survive. He has made me incapable of making my own decisions, and I think he knows that. I'm so dependent on him that life without him seems impossible.
I open the door and hear the TV. He must be in the living room. I walk in and see him sitting in his chair, a half empty beer in his hand. Two empty bottles sit on the table in front of him.
Great.
I walk quietly inside trying not to make too much noise, steady my breath and then clear my throat. "Hi, I have some exciting news."
He doesn't even look away from the TV. "You found a way to not be a complete waste of time and space?"
His words hurt just as much as his hands sometimes, because I know they're true. I am worthless and stupid. He's right when he tells me I'm nothing. "I found a job today."
"Well, congratu-fucking-lations. Can you go find some food and do what you think is cooking? I'm so hungry that even the slop you serve me sounds fucking appetizing."
I walk out of the room and into the kitchen. I've read tons of cookbooks over the years and tried my best, but my efforts are never any good. I bread some chicken, then fry it up, and steam some vegetables, setting out one plate, a knife, and a fork. His water sits at two o'clock to his plate. I don't ever eat the meals I cook for him. Since I don't contribute to the house in any way, I have no right to eat the food that he pays for. I take out my loaf of bread and make my usual peanut butter and jelly, then go into the other room to do my nightly workout.
Gaining weight is unacceptable. If I expect Dylan to take care of me then I need to make sure that I keep myself presentable for him. It's my job to keep him happy, clean the house, and make sure that everything he needs is done, because that's what wives do.
By the time I've run on the treadmill, cleaned up after myself, and showered, it's almost ten o'clock. I'm so exhausted, I can barely keep my eyes open.
When I walk into the bedroom to get dressed, Dylan is sitting on the bed waiting for me. I can smell the beer on his breath. It's hard to not scrunch my nose from the stench but I manage it.
Years of practice.
As I round the bed, keeping a tight hold on the towel wrapped around my body, I see the look in his eye and know there's no point in me getting dressed. I walk over to him, he grabs my wrist, his fingers biting into my flesh as I hold back a wince. He yanks me to him and the back of my head connects with the headboard. He stands and pushes me onto the bed with a carnal look in his eyes.
I zone out during sex. It's not enjoyable for me, and if you listen to Dylan, it's not that great for him, either. It's easier to not be in the present, to escape to a world where the man above me cherishes me, where he kisses me softly and his hands caress me. Sometimes, if I think hard enough, I can remember what gentle feels like. He used to be gentle, in the beginning.
Soft kisses.
Ghosting fingertips.
Featherlight touches.
He made me feel special. It's what made me fall so hard for him.
Without a word, he thrusts himself inside me and I bite my lip, a cry catching in my throat. He pumps in and out of me and I grasp the sheets in my hands, so dry that each thrust feels like sandpaper and I know the burn will linger long into the night. Long after he has rolled off me and fallen asleep, oblivious to the shaking figure curled up on the opposite side of the bed.
His hand clasps my throat and I gasp. He squeezes, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "I want to hear you, bitch. You have to at least be able to do this shit for me."
The edges of my vision start to curl in and blood rushes through my ears. When I start to moan and writhe against him he releases my throat, but I can still feel the imprint of his fingers, the burn of his touch. I keep up the sounds of pleasure until he finishes inside me. I've never had an orgasm, mainly because Dylan has no concern for my pleasure, but I understand that it's not something I deserve so I concentrate all my efforts on making sure he enjoys himself. It's what good wives do.