Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
But little by little, Joss ‘forgot’ to tell me that my mom had called or stopped by. Until we weren’t really even speaking anymore.
And then he came for my job.
“I make more than enough for the two of us. I’d rather have you here, taking care of the house. It’s a mess since you moved in.”
I’d quit my job, no questions asked.
And dedicated myself to keeping up the apartment. But no matter how much I swept, dusted, mopped, and straightened, he always found something out of place to mention.
“How did you not see this, Amy Jane?” he’d snap, tone sharp and disappointed, chipping away at that confidence he’d slowly but surely helped to build inside of me.
Food came next.
“Would it kill you to have a hot meal on the table for me when I get done with work?” he’d snapped. Although he’d never mentioned it before.
I found recipes and dedicated myself to having dinner ready for him every single night.
But the lasagne was never like his mom made. And the pasta noodles were too chewy and the meat was overcooked and For the love of God, how hard is it to make something halfway edible?
So I tried and tried and tried.
And failed to meet his expectations every single time.
I was an eighteen-year-old housewife—without the ring—crying on the bathroom floor every single night, pressing my face into a towel to muffle the sounds of my sobs because Joss hated crying.
It’s emotional manipulation, Amy Jane.
So, I cried alone, wiped up the evidence, went to bed, got up, and tried harder.
He’d whittled away at me in other ways, of course. My weight was a never-ending bone of contention, despite him supposedly ‘falling in love’ with me ‘at first sight’ back when I’d been at my heaviest.
“What is this?” he’d asked, grabbing a bit of flesh over my hip, jiggling it. Or he’d demanded I’d spin for him when I was naked and then grimace and tell me that my ass was too big, or the cellulite on the backs of my thighs was revolting.
“I’d always seen myself with a woman whose thighs didn’t touch,” he’d say when looking at a woman on the TV who fit his beauty standards.
My boobs, which never went anywhere no matter how much weight I lost for him, went from being something he used to praise me for, to something that made his lip curl, claiming I looked like a ‘slut’ in everything I wore because of them.
Eventually, he was so paranoid about anyone looking at me, that I was no longer allowed to wear dresses, tank tops, or sundresses.
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.