Chapter 5 - The Climax of the Abuse
On the final morning, the air was already warm.
My husband had been angry since the night before because an appointment had not told us the baby’s sex.
He accused me of hiding it from him, as though I controlled what the doctor could see.
His mother said I was probably carrying another girl.
She said it with disgust.
I remember looking down at my stomach and thinking that the baby could hear them.
I wanted the baby to hear something else.
So while my husband tied my wrists, I whispered, “You are wanted.”
He heard me.
His face changed.
He demanded to know who I was talking to.
“The baby,” I said.
That answer made him angrier.
His mother stopped sharpening for only a second.
Then she told him I was mocking them.
The belt rose.
I turned as much as the rope allowed, trying to shield my abdomen with my shoulder and hip.
The first strike landed against the fabric of my dress.
After that, the morning broke into pieces: the porch rail under my fingers, the rope tightening, my husband’s breath, his mother’s voice telling him not to leave marks where a doctor would notice.
My knees gave out.
The pillar kept me from falling all the way.
My husband cursed because my weight pulled against the knot.
He loosened it, grabbed me beneath the arms, and dragged me through the back door.
My dress gathered dirt from the threshold.
My mother-in-law followed us inside, still complaining.
“She does this for attention,” she said.
He dropped me onto the bed.
Pain moved through my abdomen in waves that did not feel like anything I had experienced before.
I told him something was wrong.
He told me to stop being dramatic.
I told him again.
His mother stood in the doorway and said a hospital would ask questions.
That was the first moment I saw fear in either of them.
It was not fear for me.
It was fear of being seen.
My husband paced between the bed and the kitchen.
He wanted to wait.
His mother wanted to create a story first.
They agreed I had fallen in the backyard while hanging laundry, even though we did not have a clothesline.
They argued about the detail until I cried out again.
Only then did my husband reach for his keys.
While they were in the kitchen, I pushed my hand into the pillowcase.
The phone was still there.
May you like
The recording timer glowed red through the cracked screen.
I slid the phone into the pocket of my dress and pressed my palm over it.
