Page 112 of Kings Don't Break
Ken’s zen-like demeanor terrifies me more than his rage-fueled behavior. He drives us like we’re still living under the veil of a happy marriage. I’m his wife and he’s my husband. We’re out for a scenic drive around the neighborhood like any other couple.
Never mind the black, festering rot that’s truly our relationship—keeping up appearances, pretending otherwise works fine enough.
We pull into the drive next to his squad car. The engine powers off and he unlocks the door with a slow turn of his head at me. His eyes vacant pools of apathy, he warns me to stay where I am.
“Unless you want to come to regret it,” he says. “But you seem to be doing a lot of that these days.”
“Ken…” I swallow, trying to sound calm. “I’m not coming inside with you.”
His lips spread into a wide, toothy smile. Still lacking the real touch of human emotion. “There’s no choice in the matter, Kor. What do you think you’re about to do? Run away for help? Go ahead.”
He reaches across my lap to push the passenger side door open. I catch a whiff of liquor on his breath. The sour smell roils the contents of my stomach even more.
“Run, Kor,” he challenges. “Run away. See if you don’t wind up with a bullet in the spine. Or maybe I’ll just mow you down as you try to run. Do you want to find out how far I’ll go? What I’m willing to do? Either you’re my wife or you’re not making it out alive. Are you clear on your options?”
My voice escapes me. Any sense of daring and nerve fractures. I remain where I am and give a pitiful shake of my head. It would only be a fifteen foot sprint to the next-door neighbors. Ken would take a fraction of that time to take aim and squeeze his trigger. Am I willing to call his bluff?
As he wrenches me from the Escalade, gripping my arm and walking me at his side, I find any healing, any progress I’ve made melts away. Maybe the progress wasn’t progress at all—maybe it was wishful thinking that lasted a couple months ’til my real life came crashing back in a tidal wave of violence.
Escape was never an option. It was always some untenable pie-in-the-sky delusion.
When I married Ken, I took a vow that was ’til death. He’s making me keep that promise even if it’ll destroy the both of us in the process.
We walk up the front path leading into the large home he bought brand new, a home many in town fawn over due to its endless curb appeal. Yet the only thing I can think about as I look up at the shuttered windows and perfect lawn surrounding the property is that I’m entering a prison that’s pretty on the outside and unbearably hideous on the inside.
Another reflection of who Ken and I are together. Ugly, hidden rot no one would ever know about.
The door slams shut and I flinch. Ken gathers my wrists in one of his hands and slaps a pair of handcuffs around them. At the shock on my face, he shows more teeth in his grin.
“New rules,” he says. “There’s going to be a lot of them going forward. I see now that I gave you way too much freedom before. All of that’s done, Kor.”
“Ken,” I say, my voice sedated with a forced calm. One slip up away from shaking. “I’m not staying. You can’t hold me hostage here.”
“Hostage? You’re my wife. This is your home.”
“We’re getting a divorce. It’ll be finalized soon?—”
“ENOUGH!” he barks, and I flinch again. His grip squeezes tight on my upper arm as he rushes me down the hall, his breaths suddenly heaving. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. I let you get too damn comfortable thinking you can say and do whatever you wanted. The buck stops here. No more.”
“You’re hurting me,” I gasp out only for him to clench my arm harder. I’m dragged and tugged along, tripping over my feet and jerked around.
“Ground rule number one, these stay on at all times.” Ken shakes my bound wrists so that the metal cuffs clang into each other. “I’ll unlock you at a few select times throughout the day, like when you’re permitted to use the bathroom and when I need you to do something like cook my meals. But don’t think for a second you’ll be unsupervised. That’s ground rule number two. Ground rule number three, no phone, no internet, no TV, no kind of contact with the outside world. You won’t even be leaving the house anymore. Except when with me. For things like appearances at precinct events.
“Rule number four, that little bank account I let you have? No more. Kiss the credit card I let you carry goodbye. Anything of yours—your ID, your passport, any other docs—will stay locked up for safekeeping. Rule five, I don’t want to hear that voice of yours unless I speak to you first. Keep your fucking mouth shut. Is that understood?”
Listening to him rattle off rules, each one growing more extreme than its predecessor, I can’t even find the strength to push back. Another spate of terror has numbed me to the bone as I realize he’s insane. He’s serious.
He’s crossed over from cruel abuse to outright psychotic torment.
“And if I want to fuck you, I’ll fuck you,” he growls into my ear. “No more of that not in the mood shit you used to try to pull. And if I want to fuck some other bitch, I’ll fuck her too. I’m not sneaking around anymore to spare your little feelings. I’ll fuck her right in front of you. Right in our bed. What are you going to do about it, huh, Kor? Nothing!”
He wrings my arm to demonstrate how little I can do—he has me stumbling, once again jostled in whichever way he wants like I’m some rag doll at his mercy. But there’s also a hint of challenge in his question; he wants me to push back and be defiant so he can smash me to pieces.
We’ve played this game many times before.
There’s no winning. The rules are conditional. Always in his favor. If I revolt, then it’s considered provoking his temper. In his eyes it’s justification for his physical abuse. Compliance pisses him off in a different way during moments where I don’t give him the reaction he’s searching for.
There’s no winning no matter what I do or how I react to him.
