And I hate his guts.
I have done everything I possibly can to get out of this marriage. I bargained with him. I told him I would leave with just Cecelia and the clothing on my back, but he just laughed. With my history of mental health problems, it would be easy for him to tell the police I’d kidnapped Cece and was going to hurt her again. I tried playing the part of the perfect wife, hoping not to give him an excuse to take me up to the attic. I cooked delicious homemade dinners, kept the house spotless, and even pretended not to be repulsed when we had sex. But he always found something. Something I never would have even imagined I did wrong.
Eventually, I gave up. I wasn’t going to try to be nice if it didn’t even affect how often he took me up there. My new strategy became to repel him. I started behaving like a shrew, snapping at him for every little thing that annoyed me. He didn’t care—he almost seemed to enjoy the abuse. I stopped going to the gym and started eating whatever the hell I wanted, hoping if I couldn’t turn him off with my behavior, I could turn him off with my appearance. On one occasion, he caught me indulging in a chocolate cake and he dragged me up to the attic and starved me for two days as a punishment. But after that, he didn’t seem to care anymore.
I tried finding Kathleen, his former fiancé, hoping she might back up my story so that I could finally go to the police without sounding like a crazy person. I had an idea of what she looked like and her approximate age—I thought I could find her. But do you know how many people roughly aged thirty to thirty-five have the name Kathleen? Quite a lot. I couldn’t find her. I finally gave up trying.
On average, he makes me go up to the attic once every other month. Sometimes it’s more frequent, sometimes less. Once six months went by without a trip up there. I don’t know if it’s better or worse that I don’t know when it’s coming. It would be awful if I knew the exact day and had to dread it, but it’s also awful to never know if I’ll be spending that night in my own bed or in that uncomfortable cot. And of course, I never know what sort of torture he’s got waiting for me in the room because I never know what transgression I have committed.
And it’s not just me. If Cecelia does something unacceptable, I’m the one who gets punished. He has purchased a wardrobe of itchy, frilly dresses that she hates, that the other children make fun of her for wearing, but she knows if she doesn’t wear them or gets them dirty, her mother will disappear for days （likely naked, to teach me clothing is a privilege）。 So she obeys.
I’m scared that someday he will start punishing her instead, but in the meantime, I’m happy to accept my fate if he spares my daughter.
And he’s very clear that if I try to get away from him, Cecelia will pay the price. He already almost drowned her. His other favorite way to taunt me is keeping a jar of peanut butter in our pantry, even though he knows that she’s allergic. I have thrown it away dozens of times, and it always reappears—and sometimes I get punished for the transgression. Thankfully, it’s not a life-threatening allergy—she just breaks out in welts all over her body. Every once in a while, he slips a little bit into her dinner, just to prove a point when the itchy, uncomfortable rash sprouts after our meal has ended.
If I knew I wouldn’t go to jail for it, I would pick up a steak knife and drive it through his neck.
Andy has prepared for that contingency though. Of course, he knows that my temptation to arrange for his death or outright kill him myself might become overwhelming. He has informed me that in the event of his death from any cause, a letter will be sent from his attorney to the police department, informing them of my unstable behavior and homicidal threats against him. Not that he needs to do it, with my psychiatric history.
So I stay with him. And I don’t murder him in his sleep. Or hire a hitman. But I do fantasize. When Cecelia is older, when she doesn’t need me, maybe I could get away. Then he won’t have a threat against me anymore. Once she is safe, I don’t care what happens to me.
“Here we are!” Suzanne announces cheerfully as we pull up in front of the gate to our home. Funny how the first time I saw those gates, I thought how charming it was to have a home with a gate surrounding it. Now it seems like exactly what it is: a prison.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say. Even though she didn’t thank me for paying for lunch.
“You’re welcome,” she chirps. “Hopefully, Andrew will be home soon.”
I grimace at the tinge of worry in her voice. A few years ago, when I was getting very close with Suzanne, we had a few too many drinks at her house and I confessed everything. Everything. I begged her to help me. I told her I wanted to go to the police, but I couldn’t. Not without anyone supporting me.