LJ Idol: 3 Strikes Week 4: "The axe forgets; the tree remembers"

[proceedcyclone]

Some days it was fine. Nice, even. He wasn’t the most romantic guy, sure, but it was clear that he loved me, that he respected me. He bought me flowers. He remembered our anniversary. He asked me about my day and actually listened until the end.

Other times, though, his anger paralyzed me. His words were sharp daggers aimed at piercing my heart. Afterward, he’d assure me that he loved me, that I’d misunderstood what he was saying—he didn’t mean it that way. Then he’d pretend it had never happened. A few times I brought it up later, but he’d sigh heavily and insist we’d already discussed it ad nauseam and I’d lose my nerve.

I felt an immense, debilitating pressure to say and do the “right” things at the correct times, but the inconsistency was difficult to manage; I didn’t know which side I’d encounter each day and I regularly made mistakes. Some days I could see that it wasn’t me, that his expectations were unrealistic, but other days, it chipped away at my psyche and I struggled to maintain a self-image of myself that wasn’t tainted by inadequacies as a wife and partner.

I could never fully rectify the contradiction of how he could say he loved me yet believe the heinous things he hurled in my direction.

He never hit me, though. That mattered, right?

I often found myself wondering if it’d be easier to leave if he had actually harmed me physically. Then other people could see the torment and understand the turmoil. Then I wouldn’t look like the bad guy. If he suddenly died—a mugging gone wrong or a car accident, perhaps—it would be even better. I wouldn’t be at fault, but I would also garner the sympathy I felt was owed to me after all these years.

The door unlocked and I heard my husband come through the door and begin to take his shoes off.
“Dinner will be ready in about half an hour,” I called from the kitchen. “How was your—” I stopped when I noticed the look on his face, the quiver of his lip. I wanted to ask what was wrong, but I was also afraid of the answer and the consequences of not replying correctly.
“Oh, never mind,” he barked as he turned to leave.
“What did I do?” I squeaked, rooted to the spot in front of the stove.
“You’re just being…being you,” he spat.

And I couldn’t take it anymore. If the problem was just me, that it wasn’t something wrong I’d said or done, I couldn’t fix it. I picked up the cast iron pan and, with both hands, swung it as hard as I could at his head. The sound he made hitting the floor was deafening followed by an eerie silence. As the blood began to pool on the floor behind his head, what I had done was slowly sinking in. Tears silently streamed down my face and my vision blurred.
“I—I just can’t anymore,” I moaned as my legs gave out.

“Sweetie, wake up…”
I blink my eyes against the early morning sunlight slipping through the blinds and glance toward my husband sitting up on his side of the bed. “I—I think I was having a nightmare.”
“Yeah? What happened?”
“I, uh, was running away from a monster,” I muttered, hoping my face didn’t give anything away.
“It sounded like you said something about not having a choice,” he coaxed.
“Um, maybe. I didn’t really want to fight back, but I was afraid if I didn’t, he—it—would hurt me.”
“Then you had to,” he assured me as he kissed my forehead.
“I suppose you’re right.”