Page 53 of Keep You Close

I’d questioned him about that last one, getting an eye roll, like I was the dumbest person he’d ever met.

“Because every man will think about hiking it up and fucking you.”

That one hadn’t made sense to me since he was always insisting that I was lucky I found him, that no one else would want to put up with my bad housekeeping, inedible cooking, my ‘weight problems,’ and the fact that I was a ‘cold fish’ in bed.

“It’s like fucking a blow-up doll,” he’d once said as he’d rolled off of me, his sweat still all over me. Then he’d let out a little snort and declared, “But at least the doll wouldn’t wince and whimper when I want to fuck harder.”

“AJ…” Atlas said, eyes sad.

“I never denied him sex,” I was quick to tell Atlas.

“Sweetheart, just because you didn’t say no, doesn’t mean you wanted it, either,” Atlas said.

And, of course, I didn’t want it. Why would I? When I was never turned on? When it went from simply not being enjoyable, to being uncomfortable or sometimes painful?

The thing was, the more I endured from him, the less it seemed possible to ever… stop enduring.

I wasn’t happy.

But it was all I knew at that point.

“What are you moping for?” he’d snap when I couldn’t hide that something he said hurt me. “Other men would beat the shit out of you for this kind of shit. Have I ever put a hand on you?”

He hadn’t.

It seemed as though mentioning it, though, put the idea in his head.

It didn’t happen right away.

It was like he needed to work his courage up to do it.

So he’d thrown things at me.

He’d slammed into me, knocking me out of his way.

He’d punch the wall beside me.

First, they hit things around you.

Then they hit you.

Sure enough, one night after he’d had his one and only friend over for dinner and to play video games, he’d started screaming at me. Telling me what an embarrassment I was, how gross the food was, how stupid my comments were to his friend.

Was I trying to make a fool of him?

“Well, were you?” he’d screamed. “Fucking answer me!”

He hadn’t given me the chance, though.

The words were out of his mouth.

And then his hand was slapping hard over my cheek, the stinging pain making me cry out, causing tears to fill my eyes.

I’d never been hit before.

My father had claimed his parents had beaten him for everything and nothing, using their hands, fists, belts, handles of brooms, anything that was close by when they were mad at him. And that he never wanted to do that to me.

The only discipline I’d gotten were lectures and time to ‘think about what I’d done.’

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