“You think you’resosmart,” he sneers at me.
“I am smart,” I reply.
“Oh really?”
“I’m smarter than you. You know that.”
He frowns but doesn’t say anything else for a while.
Because hedoesknow that.
And he found it attractive at first, but now he’s so threatened by it.
It’s one of the only remaining things he doesn’t try to strip away from me. But he hassles me about it.
He screws his face up with contempt. “You and your smart little brain.”
That’s it. That’s the insult. The entire thing.
“Okay, I have a smart brain. Thank you. You’re right.”
“You really need to do a better job around here,” he continues. “I do way more cleaning than you, and I do it better. You just sit around and work, thinking you’re better than me because you pay rent. You think I’m stupid. You think my friends are stupid. You don’t even pretend to be nice. You’re such a bitch.”
This conversation is a dead end, a loop designed to corral me into submission.
I try gray rocking.
“Yep, you’re right. I’m a terrible person. I’m a dumb cunt. I never should have been born. Yep, you got it. Thanks for reminding me.”
My tone is neutral, but the words are dripping with sarcasm. Still, it seems to placate him.
He pauses, then announces, “I’m going out for a cigarette.” The door swooshes open and closed, and the beep of it locking behind him sends a jolt of adrenaline through me.
I stare at the chipped plate in the sink, my heart racing.
He wins.
I surrender.
I don’t care anymore.
I don’t know if I’m going to survive this, but at this point I just don’t care.
One of the things that bothers me most is the property damage.
I wouldn’t own half the things I do if it weren’t for him—items he insisted he needed. And yet, when his emotions flare, those same things become targets.
He sticks knives into wooden chopping blocks, scratches a custom-made statue that was a gift to me, and smashes a sentimental mug.
It’s malicious, calculated destruction.
“It’s just a thing,” I tell myself every time. “I’ll just replace it.”
But the logical part of me argues back:
You shouldn’t have to replace it. He broke it on purpose.
Every damaged item becomes a point of inner conflict. If I replace it, I live with the fear that he’ll ruin it again. If I don’t, I live without the comfort or utility it once provided. Either way, he’s stolen something from me.