Inside My House

Inside My House

I met my husband when I was eighteen. I worked at a deli, and he was one of my regular customers. He was older than me, in his forties, and British. He reminded me of Cary Grant; handsome, tall, and so charming, with his dark hair and twinkling brown eyes. Every day for lunch he would come to my work and every day he had a smile and something nice to say. I always looked forward to waiting on him.

At the time, I was homeless. Well, not completely homeless. I did have my car. I had run away from home the year before, for reasons I’d really rather not divulge, and I ended up in New York City. I knew looking for a runaway teen in New York City was like looking for a needle in a hay stack, so I felt confident I would be able to start a new life for myself without any interferences from my past.

I was sleeping in my car one night, when someone knocked on my window. I sat up in the back seat, confused and frightened, to see my favorite customer’s face looking back at me. He insisted I spend the night at his house. He was adamant about it. I told him I was fine, and that I always slept in my car, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Eventually I gave in and agreed to go with him.

He had a very nice apartment in a nice neighborhood. He was obviously wealthy, as the place was very spacious and filled with nice furniture and expensive things. He was very kind, and a perfect gentleman. I stayed in his guest bedroom that night, and then the next morning he had his housekeeper make us breakfast.

Over breakfast he told me that he wanted to help me get a place of my own. I told him that while the offer was very sweet, I could never accept it. There was simply no way I could ever afford to pay him back. I mean, I worked at a deli for minimum wage, for Christ’s sake! His response was that he didn’t want me to pay him back. He said he was concerned about me - that sleeping in my car was dangerous, and something bad was bound to happen to me. I knew it was a bad idea, but he seemed to really care about what happened to me, so I accepted his offer.

He got me a small apartment that was very close to my work. I never saw a single bill the whole time I lived there. He paid them all. I still saw him every day at the deli, and sometimes he would stop by and visit with me for a little while. It seemed like his intentions were pure. He never made me feel like I owed him anything. A few times I even tried to give him money, but he would never take it. He never tried to come on to me or get in my pants. I liked that about him, and over the next few months my feeling for him grew.

One day he came over to visit me, and he told me all about this house he was building in upstate New York. He said I absolutely had to come see it in a few weeks when it was done, and I promised I would.

When the house was built, he took me up there to see it. Calling it a house actually is a huge understatement. It was really more of an estate. There was a huge rose garden outside that was unbelievably lovely, and the large house had every luxury I could have ever imagined. The tour of the house ended in the master suite, which was also very spacious and elaborately furnished. He opened the curtains and through the window was a breathtaking view of the garden outside.

“Oh my God!” I gasped. “It’s so beautiful!”

“It’s yours,” he told me.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked him, turning from the window to face him. I was quite sure he had been joking, but he wasn’t. He got down on one knee and took my hand.

“It’s all for you. All of it - the house, the garden, everything.” he told me. He said he was in love with me. He told me that if I would just belong to him, he’d give me everything I’d ever wanted.

How could I say no to that? I started tearing up; I was so moved by his kindness and generosity. And then he kissed me, and my fate was sealed. He was an excellent kisser, so tender yet so passionate at the same time. We stood there kissing in the window for a long time. Then without saying a word, he picked me up and carried me over to the bed where he made love to me for the first time. Less than a month later we were married. I quit my job, he sold his place in the city, and we moved into the new house.

The first few months of our marriage were heaven on earth. I thought I was the luckiest girl in the whole world to have such a handsome, attentive husband. He was so loving and very protective of me. Every day I fell a little bit more in love with him. He lavished me with expensive gifts and always seemed to know exactly how to make me smile.

But then things started to go wrong. Our house was in the country, and I loved it. But as the months passed I began to feel isolated. At first I just thought I was imagining things, but the more I paid attention, I started to notice how he never let me go anywhere alone. He insisted on accompanying me to the most mundane places. I couldn’t even go to the grocery store by myself.

I decided to talk to him about it. After all, he was my husband. If you can’t talk honestly to your spouse then who can you talk to? I told him how I felt lonely and isolated. But he brushed off my concerns, telling me that I was just having a hard time adjusting to married life, and that I would get over it. I was very upset that he was so dismissive about it. He had always been so sensitive and attentive to my needs before, but this time he didn’t seem to take me seriously at all.

That night he wanted to make love, but I was too angry. I brushed his hand away like he had brushed away my concerns earlier. I could tell that he was unhappy about it, but I was unhappy too, so I figured we were even.

The next morning he was very cold to me. We didn’t speak at all over breakfast, and afterwards he took off and was gone all day. I waited up for awhile, but when he still wasn’t home by midnight, I decided to go to bed with out him.

Around three in the morning, a loud noise downstairs woke me up. I ran downstairs to see what it was, only to find my husband, who was very drunk and had knocked over a lamp on his way in.

“Hello you,” he slurred drunkenly in his British accent when he saw me standing there in my nightgown.

“Where have you been?” I asked him. “I was worried about you.”

“Come here,” was his only reply.

“No,” I said icily, turning away from him. “You’re drunk and I’m going to bed.” I started to head up the stairs, but he was right behind me. He grabbed my arm rather fiercely, and I winced.

“When I tell you to come to me, you fucking come. Do you hear fucking hear me?” The man standing next to me now was a stranger to me, and I was afraid of him. I stared at him with tears welling up in my eyes.

“Let go of me!” I tried to jerk my arm away, but he was stronger than I was, and I was unsuccessful in my attempt to free myself.

“No,” he told me with a sadistic little smirk playing on his drunken face.

“You’re hurting me!” I started to cry.

“Then we’re even then, aren’t we darling?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I fucking own you, you know that?” he asked me hatefully. “Do you want me to take you back to the gutter where I found you? You ungrateful little bitch!”

“I don’t understand,” I told him, sobbing, trying to wrench my arm away again. “Why are you acting like this?”

“I should ask you the same question. Why are you acting like this?”

“Acting like what? I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“You know damn well what I’m talking about!” All I could do was stand there and cry. I felt so helpless and confused.

“Now,” he said to me, finally letting go of my arm. “We’re going to bed, and you’re going to be a good little wife, aren’t you, darling?” I nodded tearfully. I didn’t know what else to do. At this point I was completely terrified of him.

He led me upstairs, and we had sex, but only because I was afraid of what he would do to me if I told him no. Usually, when we were being intimate, he was very giving; always making sure it was a very pleasurable experience for me, but this time it was different. His lips were cruel and hard. He was very rough with me, and didn’t much seem to care if he was hurting me. In fact, I think he wanted to hurt me. I felt like I was being punished for something, but I had no idea what I had done to elicit such treatment from him. When he was done with me, I rolled over and cried myself to sleep.

The next morning he was back to his usual self, as if nothing had ever happened at all. He woke up with a smile on his face, and kissed me on the cheek before getting out of bed. Now I was really confused. What the hell happened last night? Had I been dreaming? Had he really raped me last night? This man, the handsome man with the kind eyes that laid next to me now, that was the man I knew and loved. Surely he would never do anything to hurt me. He had always been such a wonderful husband in the past.

But then I looked at the bruise on my arm and realized it had all really happened. It was no dream. I got up to get dressed, and my whole body ached. I was so sore. I felt sick to my stomach, and I ran to the bathroom and vomited. He heard me, and came to stand in the bathroom doorway.

“Are you alright, darling?” he asked me very sweetly, as if he was genuinely concerned about me.

“I’m fine,” I said quietly. “I just don’t feel well, that’s all.”

“You poor little thing!” he replied, his tone sympathetic. He helped me back into bed and said he was going to make me some tea. He returned a few minutes later with the tea, and he sat next to me on the bed as I drank it. He was very kind, and very soothing, stroking my hair, and trying to be comforting.

I didn’t know what to think. Maybe he had been so drunk last night that he honestly didn’t remember what he had done. Yes, that must be it. I decided to forgive him and pretend it never happened. What else could I do? He was my husband, and I loved him.

For the next few months, everything went back to normal, and I once again had the perfect husband. He bought me flowers and pretty gifts, and he even took me on a romantic vacation to Paris, where we had a very lovely time together.

I found out I was pregnant about a week after we returned from Paris. I was very excited. I had always wanted a family, and now I was finally going to have one. I told him over dinner, but his response was from what I had imagined it would be.

“I’m too old to have children,” he told me matter-of -factly. “We’ll have to get rid of it.”

“Get rid of it? Why?”

“I’m forty-seven, darling. Far too old to start a family.”

“Forty-seven isn’t old!” I protested.

“Besides,” he added. “I already have a child to take care of.”

“You do?” I asked, incredulously, angry he had never told me he had a child with someone else.

“Well, I’ve got you, haven’t I?”

I stormed off, running upstairs and slamming the bedroom door, locking it behind me. How dare he talk to me like that! Who did he think he was? I was absolutely infuriated with the way he had handled the situation. Calling me a child! How dare he! A few minutes later, he knocked on the bedroom door.

“I won’t get rid of it!” I screamed at him from the other side of the door. “You can’t make me! It’s my baby too!”

“Quit acting like a child and open this door!” he bellowed angrily.

“No!”

“Open the God-damn door!” he yelled, his tone threatening.

“How could you say such a thing?” I asked him tearfully from the other side of the door. “Don’t you love me? Don’t you want to have a family with me?”

“Open this door at once, or God help me, I’ll fucking break it down.” Against my better judgement I opened the door, and he came storming into the room.

“Why can’t you just be happy about this?” I asked him, still crying.

“Do you remember our marriage vows?” he asked me.

“What do you mean?”

“When you married me, I do recall you promised to love, honor, and obey me. You should work on that last one - obedience.”

“That’s so unfair! God, you can be so mean sometimes!”

“You, my sweet little wife, have absolutely no idea.”

“Fine.”

“Fine what?”

“I’ll get rid of it, if that’s what you want. My baby deserves a better father than you anyway.” He lunged at me and hit me in the face, full force. I reeled across the room, landing on the floor with a thud.

“You bitch! You fucking bitch!” He kicked me viciously as I tried to get up. “Don’t you ever fucking talk like that to me again! Do you hear me?” He continued to beat me savagely. “Answer me! Do you fucking hear me? Do you?”

“Yes,” I sobbed finally, wiping my bloody nose with my sleeve. “I hear you.” He stopped his assault on me, and went to sit on the end of the bed. There was a very long silence.

“I’m sorry,” he told me finally. “I got a little carried away, and I’m sorry.” I said nothing. I just sat there crying on the floor. “Come here,” he said, and I went to him. I was too afraid not to. I stood in front of him, my face bloody and tear-stained. He pulled me on to his lap like I was a little girl, held me close to him, and stroked my hair soothingly. I couldn’t help it. I started crying even harder.

“How could you?” I sobbed into his chest, the blood from my nose seeping into his shirt. “How could you?”

“I’m sorry, darling,” he said softly, and I cried even harder. “There, there, love. Please don’t cry. I’m so sorry. Please, please forgive me. I’m sorry, I really am.”

“I hate you,” I told him between sobs.

“Don’t say that, love,” he said soothingly. “We both know that’s not true.”

“It is true!” I cried. “I hate you!”

“Darling, please. Please forgive me!” He started to cry, something I had never seen him do before. “I’m so sorry. I love you so much. You know I love you. I know you do. You have to forgive me. I’m so fucking sorry!” He broke down in tears, unable to speak anymore, and just held me close to him, weeping. Eventually, I told him that I forgave him, but in my heart I never did.

I didn’t end up getting an abortion. I didn’t need one. Three days later, on my twentieth birthday, I had a miscarriage. He acted very supportive and comforting about the whole thing, but I couldn’t shake feeling that secretly he was pleased about it.

One night about two weeks later, we were lying in bed together, and he began to touch me, his hands wandering over me. The doctor had told me that we needed to wait six weeks after the miscarriage before having sex again, so that I could heal, and I gently reminded him of this fact. He kept going like he hadn’t heard me.

“Honey, stop,” I said finally, slightly annoyed. “You know we’re supposed to wait. You heard the doctor.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his lips in my hair. “But you can’t really expect me to wait that long. Six weeks is an eternity, darling. I need you now.”

“Well, you’re just going to have to wait.”

“Why? You look alright to me.” His hand was slowly making its way up my nightgown.

“I said stop!” I removed his hand from me and rolled over. He grabbed my shoulders and rolled me over. The next thing I knew he was on top of me.

“You know,” he told me. “It’s very selfish to try and deny me what’s rightfully mine as your husband. Very, very rude. Perhaps I should teach you some manners, hmm?”

“Get off me!”

“No,” he said flatly. “I will not. You’re my wife, and you belong to me.” He started kissing my neck, something I normally liked, but I hated it just then. I tried to wriggle away from him, but he had me pinned to the bed, and I couldn’t really move much.

“Please,” I begged him softly. “Please stop. If you love me at all, please stop.” He held both of my arms above my head with one of his hands, and his other hand ran up my thigh. He started to touch me between my legs, and I started to cry.

“Doesn’t this feel good?” he asked me. “I thought you liked this.”

“Not like this, I don’t. Please stop.”

“Fine! Have it your way, darling.” He withdrew his hand from me. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Thank God he had stopped. But I was wrong, because a second later, he plunged into me fiercely, making me cry out in pain. He was brutal, pounding into me mercilessly, painfully taking from me what I had refused to give him. Afterwards, I lay there crying, blood seeping from between my legs and staining the expensive sheets.

“I can’t take this anymore,” I sobbed. “I wish I were dead.” He sat up in bed and looked at me. He grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and gently wiped the tears off my face.

“Darling, don’t say that,” he said quietly.

“You hurt me!” I screamed at him, my voice bordering on shrill. “You hurt me, and you don’t even care! Look what you did to me! I’m bleeding!”

“Of course I care, love.” He stroked my arm softly in an attempt to comfort me. I jerked my arm away from him.

“Don’t you touch me!”

“Don’t talk like that. I’m your husband, and I love you. I know I got a little carried away, but you’re alright, love. Everything’s fine.”

“It’s not fine! Nothing is fine! I want a divorce! I’m leaving you!”

“Like hell you are!” He stood up and stormed out of the room. When he shut the door, I heard a little click, and I felt sick when I realized that he had locked me in. I ran to the door, pounding on it, begging and screaming for him to let me out, but he never did. He keeps me here, trapped inside my house.

I live with my husband in a big house in the country. From the outside, I suppose it all looks very pretty, but no one knows what its like inside my house. This home is my prison, my husband my warden. I sit by the window overlooking my beautiful garden, and I wish with all my heart that I were sleeping in my car.

The End