He grabbed the wine bottle and yanked it out of my hand, the patrons at the restaurant looked on, with a certain amount of uneasiness, but none of them were brave enough to say anything. Not in this age of political correctness, enlightenment and you better "mind your own business". In today's world, everyone was shuddered. Both men and women alike. They chose to pretend and overlook things. Even the one's that took place right in front of their very eyes because, It didn't concern them.
"You always keep the good stuff to yourself," He said slurring his speech.
"You always have." He said with a vindictive smile. There was something in that last remark that made my insides cook and then boil.
Every breath he took, every beligarant smile his face concocted. I wish I had the strength, to take the steak knife, that rested near the neatly folded serviettes on that table and stick it down his throat. Not that I hadn't tried that before, I had plenty of times.
He had beat me silly, the first time I ever tried to. He had hit me every time after that until I was pink and blue in the face, and I could hardly speak and the rest of my body? Would have these streaks of dark purple zigzagging through it. Which were like road maps, showing where some of his blows and the belt landed which he had grown to love, and then they would begin again. I think the fact, that he used to beat me with a belt, that was what had taken all my dignity away. I felt like a little child being given a hiding by a parent.
I had to wear long sweaters and scarves and huge sun glasses for nearly a month or two, after each beating. But I still stayed. Scars and all. Because I loved him. Because he'd tell me how sorry he was, and somehow make it seem like it was my fault. That I made him angry, that I made him hit me and I'd made it worse when I fought back. And he'd pour warm water for me, wash me down and raise me up in his arm, like his little girl and I'd think he really loved me.
So I'd go the extra mile for him, I didn't press charges, like he asked. He'd say he'd changed and say he didn't know what got into him, and he'd tell me the amount of days or weeks that would pass without the belt. So I'd think that chapter was over and I'd put in heaves and heaves of make-up and foundation, so my girlfriends wouldn't see me like that. But deep down? I knew they knew, deep down I knew everyone knew. My colleagues at work, my neighbours, people from work.
I watched the sweat drip from his brow and seep out of every pore in his body, each puff of the cigarette he took as we ate in the smoke section of the restaurant. Gave off this odur, this smell that reviled me. The smell of cigarettes and peppermint bubblegum infused with his favorite cologne and sweat. He smelt like a furnace. I know some people would think the smell of cigarettes and cologne were the best things ever? On a man, but not me. I hated it.
But I despised the bad boy persona he grew after we got married the most, and to be honest?
After 20 something years of marriage, I still don't know what attracted me to him. I still don't know why I stayed so long. I still don't know how he swindled me into loving him so much. I honestly don't know what I ever saw in him. When I was young, I used to have a list of good things about him and I'd make sure I told him, "How good of a man he was," How he was the best thing to ever happen to me. But as time progressed the list became smaller and smaller as another side of him began to unravel. A side of him, that had kept me in fear and terrorised me, for so many years.
We married young. Maybe too young. But what could I say? I followed my parents route, they married as teenagers and they'd been happy ever since. It's such a pity that happens and good marriages don't rub off on you just because you came from a stable happy home and your parents adored you and your father practically worshipped the place your feet threaded on. But what can I say? I was that man's smile and reason for being.
I am and always will be, my father's daughter.
