Episode 11

...BELEN CLINT...

Regrettably, I conjured numerous illusions and reality struck like a sledgehammer. A reality starkly distinct from my hopes, far more harrowing than I could have anticipated.

I abandoned my job, ceasing to show up, a decision dictated by the bruises on my neck and other marks. Their presence rendered me incapable of continuing; I considered myself dismissed, which under the circumstances seemed only reasonable.

If I thought my boyfriend would stick around longer and cease his nightly escapades, I was beyond delusional. Things were fine for a couple of weeks. He vowed there would be no repetition of his transgressions, that he would protect her, and that someone must have spiked his drink. His explanations were plentiful, excessively so.

I bought into every lie, every promise. I rationalized the incident as a drug-induced aberration, because he seemed changed.

It felt akin to blaming a victim for succumbing to someone's advances under the potent influence of an aphrodisiac—a foolish move to hold onto the only person in my life, I excused him wrongly.

Yet the usual cycle of our relationship persisted—tranquility succumbing to inevitable storms, which then gave way to brief respites of peace for a week or two.

I healed, and he refrained from touching me until I was well again. He abstained from alcohol, drugs, and didn't venture out at night.

One "ordinary" evening, he failed to come home for dinner, stirring concern within me. Our door was always locked, spare keys non-existent. An errand as simple as buying bread was impossible, and I dreaded the thought of being trapped in a serious emergency like a fire.

Returning home, he arrived drunk and irate for reasons only he was privy to. Uncertain whether to engage or not, I was terrified.

His gaze fixed upon me, menacing, reeking of whisky drunk with his "friends."

And that fear was palpable—who wouldn't be frightened to their very core?

He lay down, his touch rough and graceless, igniting not even the faintest spark of desire in me. My refusal was futile against his strength, and he declared it a woman's duty to please her man. He interrogated me on who else I might be pleasing, an absurd suspicion considering my isolation.

I found myself sleepless, again. Yet morning painted a façade of normalcy.

Our relationship spiraled in a destructive loop. My suggestion to separate was met with his threat of suicide, tears streaming down his cheeks, a knife held to his wrist as a macabre pledge.

The scenario was gravely authentic. Despite my offense, I couldn't stand by and watch him take his life before me.

Months passed and an aunt of his, accompanied by her daughter, came to visit—an unusual occurrence. They seemed well-off and more mannered than even my mother-in-law, thankfully.

The woman observed me with keen interest. Clad in long sleeves, I concealed the rough handprints from his abuse. I hesitated to seek her aid, fearing reprisal if she conveyed my plight to him.

In the kitchen, she followed to assist—a gesture he opposed but conceded to with a single glance from her. Her command over him puzzled me; he respected her more than his own mother.

"What's going on?" she probed, her cordiality dissipating.

"I don't know what you're referring to, ma'am," I feigned ignorance.

"Drop the formality, Amapola. It's warm and you're overdressed. Is he hitting you?" Her directness triggered my nervous gaze, welling up with tears.

"He... he... I don't want him to die. Please, say nothing, don't provoke his anger," I pleaded.

"You need to get out, don't stay or it'll be too late," she advised, returning with dessert plates to the kitchen while I composed myself and followed with a serving dish, anticipating an aftermath of probing questions. Clearly, he feared his aunt.

(......)

I strove for perfection, aware of my fallibility. I aimed to avoid mistakes that might provoke punishments. When he was calm, he occasionally took me out, to the grocery store or elsewhere. Sunlight, typically viewed through a window, became a rare delight but swiftly overshadowed by potential consequences upon returning: jealous scenes if glanced at by another, physical harm, or assault—or he might just erupt in anger, leaving only to return drunk and erratic.

His unsteady return meant searching for reasons to belittle me, to resume the abuse.

Instinctively shy, I now lived in fear and shame. If with him, eye contact with men was forbidden.

The changes kept coming, none for the better. I remained trapped in my prison, each day shrouded in the dread and uncertainty of what might come next.