PROLOGUE
DALLAS
He’s never once hit me. And he loves to point it out.
“You act like you’re some abused wife. It’s so fucking dramatic, D. You know there are actually some women out there getting their asses beat, right? I’ve never laid a finger on you.”
He’s right. He’s never left a mark. At least, not one anyone could see.
“I’m not talking about that. I’m saying that when you tell me you’re going to sue me for full custody if I leave you, that’s fucked up, and it’s controlling. You’re using the twins to try to manipulate me into staying with you.”
He laughs without an ounce of humor. “So, you hate me now—is that it? You hate me because you don’t get to do whatever you want, like fucking everyone in this entire town. Sorry for marrying you and ruining your chances of becoming a whore.”
I swallow, my insides growing numb.
It always happens this way. He starts making things up about the person he thinks I want to be, who is always a whore and never his wife or the mother of his children.
At this point, I’m starting to believe it too.
But I can’t say that, of course. My basic instincts of self-preservation and survival are starting to kick in. He’s getting that glittering black look in his eyes. The one that makes me start to believe all his dark threats about burying my body in the vacant lot next door if I keep pissing him off.
“Matt, you know that’s not true. I love being your wife. I just hate when we fight. The boys shouldn’t hear us talking like this.”
He grabs the glass of pure vodka, tilting it back over his lips before wiping his mouth with the back of his forearm. He rears back, throwing it against the mirror beside the bed. I flinch as they both shatter, glass spraying everywhere as he stumbles toward me.
Please, please don’t wake up the boys …
They’re just down the hall, sleeping peacefully. Being a stay-at-home mom to two-year-old twins has me running ragged on the daily. I spend an hour every night just trying to bathe them, get their pajamas on, and read a bedtime story while they somersault around the room and roll Hot Wheels over each other’s backs.
“Then prove it, bitch. Suck my dick right now and show me that you want to be my wife and make me happy.”
He starts unbuckling his pants. The numb acceptance has already begun spreading through my limbs, preparing me for the task I knew was coming. I slide the ponytail holder off my wrist and use it to tie my long, curly hair back. He pulls his pants down and sits on the edge of the bed.
Sometimes, I do things for survival that make me want to vomit. I have to mentally exit my body to be able to get through it.
But I do it for the boys. I don’t care how my husband hurts me anymore. I just want the twins to stay safe, to sleep through the night and wake up and have a good morning, completely unaware of the horror their father puts their mother through in the room down the hall.
Sometimes, I find myself wishing he would hit me. Just once.
If he hit me, then I could say he physically abused me.
If he hit me, I would have a visible mark to represent all the invisible ones.
I get down on my knees by the side of the bed, his dark eyes are watching me as he sits on the edge of the mattress.
You can do this. You have to get him to calm down, to stop being so angry. If you don’t, the fight will only escalate. He’ll wake up the boys. They might see something, something that could scar them for life.
I lick my lips and open my mouth, sucking him between my lips. I close my eyes, pretending I’m somewhere else, anywhere else.
I’ve gotten really good at this part—the dissociation.
I can almost fully escape it, floating outside of myself like a ghost, only casually observing what’s happening in this prison, disguised as a master bedroom.
After a few minutes, my knees start aching. I’m mentally calculating how many slices of deli meat are left in the fridge before I’ll have to go to the grocery store. I’m thinking about the damp load of towels in the washer that will need to be transferred to the dryer before the mildew sets in.
The glass.
I have to clean up the glass before the boys wake up. They will get terrible splinters if I miss even the tiniest sliver.
