I hear that this is the place to share your scariest experiences, so here goes.
I haven’t told this to anyone. Not my sister, not my friends, and I haven’t even gotten a lawyer. I figure that would look bad.
My husband was a son of a bitch. We married at twenty, because I was afraid of getting old without kids. I’m glad we never had any.
He was okay at first. Brought home a government salary, didn’t drink much. The rent was never late on our double-wide. I was never taught to enjoy sex, so I’m happy to say that it was always over quickly.
The years went on. I couldn’t ever articulate my disappointment, because I was never taught to dream. There’s a wound that will never heal.
I always suspected that he got around, but I never had any proof and I never wanted any. I couldn’t see any deviation from our rut that didn’t lead downhill. I never peeked over the edge.
When I caught him with that bitch next door, he didn’t even attempt to hide it. Just told me to fuck off, that she was giving him what I never could. I can’t remember what I screamed at him.
That was the first time he hit me.
The fear didn’t settle in until hours later. I was determined to spend the night at my sister’s house, but then what? I’d eventually have to return home, because there was nothing else in my life. So I went home that night.
He was piss-ass drunk, and it still smelled like her panties. I’d been in bed all of three seconds when he got up and beat the shit out of me until he collapsed from exhaustion.
Then what? That kept running through my head. I could leave, but then I’d have to decide if I came back or not.
And there was nothing else in the world.
So I stopped the bleeding with cotton balls and toilet paper, then curled into bed next to him. I cried myself to sleep.
The next time I caught him fucking her was less surprising. Same with the next time he beat me.
The fear never receded, though. It has a way of seeping into your bones like early winter, clinging and cloying with a meanness that won’t stop until you accept it.
You’ve never been afraid until you’re terrified of someone in your own house.
I accepted it for years, because I didn’t think I was worth anything.
I think that’s what saved me. I imagined getting locked up, and it just didn’t seem any worse than the life I was living. So I came home one night with a shovel that I’d paid cash for at the local Wal-Mart and caved his skull in. He didn’t fight. It was easy. Pieces of brain ended up on the sheets.
I was very, very angry.
I’d resigned myself to surrendering to police when I went to bury him in the trees behind our trailer park. But no one noticed me. Not while I dragged the bloody garbage bags, not while I was digging, not when I fell asleep without showering.
It’s been three days. I guess the world didn’t care about him any more than I did.
Anyway, I’m glad this is off my chest. I’m not afraid anymore, because getting caught will still be less scary than living with that son of a bitch.
And I’m using a throwaway account for a reason. I don’t think I’ll get caught.