He said he loved me. He said he wished I were dead. He said I wasn't worth killing.
He'd swear he was the only person in the world who truly loved me. He swore my parents never wanted me. That I shouldn't have been born. That I was just a mistake. I was a waste of space.
I made him sick. I was disgusting. I should have been aborted. I should now, immediately forgive him because he didn't mean it. It was my fault for making him so angry. If he didn't love me so much, he wouldn't get so furious. I was to blame.
Sales girls predictably fawned over him when he'd spend too much on pricey perfume. "He's so wonderful," they'd say. "I wish my man would buy this for me," they'd tell me. I was expected to fawn over him, too. But later he'd say that all the fragrance in the world would never cover the stench that came from my rotten soul. I was, after all, born rotten.
Why did you marry me? I'd ask. "Because I knew no one else would," he'd say, adding that at the time, he felt sorry for me.
He'd call me pretty and beautiful. He'd say that all the cosmetics in the world would never hide my ugliness. Ugliness that caused my entire family to despise me.
I was, in his mind, nothing but a liar and a cheat. The lack of proof on both charges only fueled his fervor. Not only was I lying and cheating, I was also a masterly deceitful. But he swore he'd catch me. He swore that one day I'd wake up and find him gone. Yes, one day, he used to promise, he'd disappear and I'd never be able to find him again. And wouldn't I be sorry?
He said he bought me everything money could buy. All the best name brands. He left me bankrupt, homeless and shattered. He probably told you that I used him, I kicked him out and kept "everything."
But he never leaves. Not really. Years have passed since I've seen him, but he's always there. Coming up with new internet aliases to show me how clever he is. He's using his real name now. And his real photo. Collecting a group of you women, making friends with those who have been wounded by either life or love. Gathering your sympathy, endearing himself to you.
I am, after all, the wicked, crazy one.
