Episode 14

...BELEN CLINT...

Hope to find the keys remained, yet they eluded me. The wretch kept them close at all times. Even a stir in bed set him on edge. I think he grew suspicious the night his aunt dined with us, for after that, no blows came my way, but neither did freedom nor escape from his gaze.

How long could this uneasy peace last? A week, perhaps two at a stretch, was the exaggerated estimate, yet I doubted his ability to refrain from laying hands on me for even that long.

The thought of him drinking again, resuming the beatings or worse, filled me with terror, but escaping his clutches seemed a daunting task.

Many times I've pondered what shaped him into this kind of monster. I was curious about his past relationships – whether he had been violent with them too. Nothing can justify violence, especially when 'I love you' is a frequent whisper. Love does not harm, and even without extensive experience, that much is crystal clear to me.

However, as often happens in my relationship, calm precedes the storm, and sure enough, the cycle repeated – an endless spiral that always ended with me bruised and battered, him vowing to change, followed by even fiercer attacks.

Again, I saw him bribe the police. The same charade played out. Once more, two days passed without him at home, two days when I could breathe easy. But his return was accompanied by an officer and two other officials, palms greased with money, amplifying my dread that any attempt I made to flee would not only fail but lead me right back to him, courtesy of those meant to protect.

To say I felt alone was an understatement – it was not just a feeling but a harsh reality. Alone, defenseless, enduring untold pain at the hands of the one who professed to love me. Yet, my trials were far from over.

One day, when the bruises faded, he reappeared with a gift – a ring, an odd gesture. A marriage proposal came with it, his solution to all our troubles, his claim that I was his ideal woman and that matrimony would be our salvation.

I felt sick to my stomach but managed a coerced smile and acceptance, tears not of joy but of profound sorrow. He didn't love me and never would. I couldn't marry him, not even if he begged on bended knee. I yearned for escape. But that's not all; he wanted intimacy, and I knew refusal would unleash his rage.

I was numb to sexual desire – how could it be otherwise? As he took his pleasure, my mind escaped to anywhere but that place, only to be crudely yanked back to a grim reality where I was little more than a servant, catering to his darkest whims.

As quickly as the proposal came, the peace evaporated. My lack of happiness earned me a beating, treated as the vilest scum.

Such was his way – ever fickle, with a temper to match.

After enduring another assault, excused by accusations that provoked him, I was to blame for everything. That was when I resolved to flee at any cost, even if it meant risking my life.

Following the beating, as was his custom, he left. But this time my body refused to comply with his demands. For a moment, he feigned sympathy, handling everything. I decided to try a different tactic that might just work – acquiesce, shoulder the unjust blame, and possibly lessen his grip on me. Movement was barely possible, after all.

An urgent call interrupted his post-lunch rest, a call so important it had him cursing, shoes hastily donned, rushing out. Someone was coming for him, but I dared not look to see who.

I waited ten minutes before checking if it was a ruse. The door opened. I grabbed a backpack, my ID, sparse clothes, the cash his aunt had given me, my savings, and that essential phone number.

My pale skin still displayed the tell-tale marks clearly. I hurried, weaving through the streets. A woman's shock upon seeing me spurred me to glance at my reflection in a store window; anyone would be alarmed at the sight of my condition.