Did I love him, or did I love how he made me feel in those rare moments of light?
Because the man standing in front of me isn’t someone who loves me.
He’s a monster.
A demon who feeds on my despair, tearing me down piece by piece until there’s not a shred of me left.
And he’s almost succeeded.
Almost.
A FEW DAYS LATER
Sometimes, I just need to laugh. After a long day of feeling trapped in my own home, I decide to put onBrunö. It’s ridiculous and absurd—exactly the kind of humor I think might lift our spirits.
“This movie isawful,”Timmy whines twenty minutes in, crossing his arms. “Terrible! It’s really upsetting me!”
“It’s… a comedy,” I say carefully. “I thought you’d like it. It’s warped, like your sense of humor.”
“Nope! Nope, nope.” He stands, pacing the room. “This has ruined my mood. I was so happy before, and now I’m tense and upset that you even put it on.”
Before I can respond, he grabs his keys and storms out, the familiar cycle unfolding— cigarettes, the drug tents, and a return hours later, drunk and belligerent. I sit and wait, gray-rocking, refusing to engage when he starts hurling insults.
The next morning, we’re cooking breakfast when he flicks through the channels and lands onBrunö.
“Hey, this looks funny. Should we watch it?”
I blink at him, incredulous. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“What? It looks good!”
“You literally started a fight with me last night because this movie upset you so much.”
“Oh, did I? Haha, that’s kind of funny. You have to admit.”
I stare at him, seething.
He’s rewritten the narrative, as he always does.
But I don’t say anything.
Because there’s no fucking point.
I drink, to block out his mean comments more than anything, and he waits until I’ve had a couple, then starts a fight and mocks my drinking.
I monitor my alcohol intake so I’m aware of how much I’ve consumed, but then he refills my glass—often when I’m notlooking, and then he starts a fight and criticizes me for having any at all.
On other days, I don’t drink at all, and he accuses me of drinking, and starts a fight.
One day, he walks into the kitchen and opens up a cupboard where my vodka is located.
Producing a Sharpie from a drawer, and without looking at the bottle, he says, “I can tell how much you’ve been drinking because you’re being a belligerent bitch. I’m going to draw a line to show how much I believe you’ve drunk of this bottle today based on your behavior.”
He draws a line low on the bottle, and I just stare at him.
I’ve had literally one drink, he’s had several, and his assessment is way off.
“Wrong,” I say. “Way wrong.”