I can get myself out of this. It’s not too late.
Roger taunts me about not having kids. It’s his new obsession. His new kink.
He has a doctor friend of his come over to the house so he can watch me get my birth control shots. He says that in any other form I could neglect it. Pills can be flushed down the toilet, IUD’s can be taken out. Condoms can break, I guess. Not that he uses them with me. The birth control is almost one-hundred percent effective, so I suppose there’s no need.
Roger wants to control me. It turns him on. And I let him, which makes me even more ridiculous than he is.
I fantasize about screaming in his face that I never want to get pregnant with his child anyway, but I can’t actually tell him that, because I fear that it would make him knock me up out of spite. He grows more and more evil every day, Barn. He’s Lucifer in a Versace suit.
And I’m his little Mrs.
His Princess of Darkness.
To think we’re celebrating our seven-year wedding anniversary next month makes me want to vomit. I’m just numb most days, coasting through my life like a zombie, locking onto any passing joy that I find and strangling the life out of it with need. I’m so desperate, I chase fleeting highs wherever I can find them.
I drink too much. Not enough to get sloppy or develop a problem, because my husband would never allow it. Nor would he tolerate the use of any actual drugs, which I would love to get my hands on for that reason.
When I have a truly great day painting, sometimes I just burst into tears. I want to savor that feeling, for as long as possible, but it always passes.
Roger has been traveling more and more for work, which is a bonus. Any time I have away from him is a victory, though - and it pains me to admit this - I do miss the sex. I should probably start masturbating more or something, because while I cling to the high of orgasms with my piece of shit husband, I hate that I still give him this part of myself.
He fucks other women, of this I’m sure. But when he’s with me I know it’s different, because I’m the only one he owns completely. Body, mind, and heart. He thrives on that power.
I hate that I’m still turned on by him. I’m so sick of finding him attractive, it pisses me off. I want to find another man who turns me on more than Roger does.
Lately I’ve been craving the look and feel, smell and taste of a new man. Someone who isn’t Roger Glines.
You’d think because of what I’ve been going through, I’d be afraid of men… But the opposite seems true. I find myself looking at them when I’m out of the house, silently pleading with my eyes for them to recognize my distress and save me.
It’s ridiculous. Only I can save myself. But it doesn’t mean I don’t need a little help, or at the very least a hot guy to be my muse.
I just want to meet someone who isn’t a liar and a mind-fucker of the highest degree, like my husband. Someone just as gorgeous, but also sweet. Someone who laughs and smiles often. Someone with kind eyes and strong hands that touch me softly and sensually; not rough and threatening.
I miss having fun. Even in the beginning, the fun Roger and I had was usually based on our surroundings. Now that we’ve been together for so long, and I’ve spent the last seven years studying him silently, I finally see how fraudulent our happiness was. How it was all for show; hollow and empty. We were lying to ourselves, and worst of all, I believed it.
Sometimes after we have sex, I go into the bathroom and draw myself a hot bath. I don’t mean hot, like relaxing. I’m talking scalding. And then I dunk my body into it and let the water burn any trace of him off me. It makes me feel better for all of two minutes.
I might have to cool it soon, though. I burnt my leg the other day, and he got pretty pissed off. I still have the bruises from that reprimanding.
I’ve tried scarring my body in ways that would hopefully turn him off, but it hasn’t worked yet. I pray for the day he’ll leave me because he’s sick of the mess I’ve become, but so far no such luck. He likes me this way. All the new tattoos… He loves them. My pierced nipples and nose… They make his eyes light up with part ferocious lust and part dangerous depravity.
I just keep telling myself to hold on. To keep going, keep breathing.
Soon I’ll build up the courage to leave. Soon something will happen to give me that final shove in the right direction.
I can only hope I don’t wind up dead waiting.
Chapter Twelve
Noah
White or black?
I’m choosing a hat. The white one, or the black one? Or maybe I should go bareback? I can’t decide.
Already I’m fussing over my outfit tonight more than I have since I was eighteen. But I need to look good. Not like I’m trying too hard… Just casually sexy and awesome, which is how I always look, though tonight it feels like more of an effort than usual. And I need to hurry up. I should leave in twenty minutes if I want to get to the gallery on time.
I’m going to Alex’s show. Duh. Like there was ever any question of whether I would.
I’ve been to many an art show in my day. Gallery openings, exhibits, stuff like that… I get invited to them all the time. It’s something rich New Yorkers love to do in their spare time, and they love it even more when famous people, such as yours truly, show up.
So since this ain’t my first rodeo, I know what to expect. Shows for a newbie like Alex will be roughly three hours long, and a majority of the RSVP’s won’t show up until about halfway through.
I, however, will not be doing that. I’m getting there the second they open the doors, and I’m staying until they close them. If anyone were to ask me why I’m staying the whole time, I’d say it’s because I care about Alex greatly, I’m proud of her, and I want to support her as a friend.
The unknown reason, which I won’t admit out loud and if anyone accuses me, I’ll lie through my teeth, is that I want to catch a glimpse of Dr. Wife-Beater.
I have to assume Alex’s asshole husband will be there tonight. I mean, why wouldn’t he? Even if he’s an abusive fucktard, his wife is hosting her first ever gallery show tonight. It’s his obligatory husbandly duty to show up and support her, even if it’s just to save face and keep up the facade of the fancy-pants Doctor with the stunning, bohemian artist wife.
From what Alex told me the other night when we stayed up until the wee hours talking about everything under the sun, despite his general awfulness, Dr. Husband has been very supportive of her art career. Building her a studio, paying for art classes, introducing her to other bougie people in his circle who could help get her name out there. Apparently, his love of inflicting physical violence on her doesn’t affect his ability to be an encouraging spouse.
Who knew…
Regardless of his occasional benevolence, she’s leaving him. We already talked about it. I’ll be damned if I enable her to get sucked back into the web of lies and deceit he’s been spinning her in for years. I assured her I wouldn’t push, and I meant it. But that doesn’t mean I’ll just stand by and watch her fade away either.
I’m going to check this asshole out tonight. And since murdering him in cold blood in public could be deemed inappropriate, I might end up peeing in his drink a little.