Tag Archives: abuse

Don’t let them see you sweat 1

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My husband has committed the most pernicious of sins against me. I found out about his mistresses about a week ago. Yes mistresses, not mistress, but mistresses. He’s away on company business so I have had time to simmer and sizzle in my anger. The first time I received a message from this illusive person I laughed it off confident that it was not meant for me and that the sender had got their contacts wrong. But then she sent more messages with a little more detail as to who I was. U r Luuka’s wife. I knw u. We v 2 mit n tok.

My skin crawled and it certainly wasn’t solely because of her annoying shorthand. She had spelt his name wrong; Luuka instead of the correct Luca, but most people did. But she was right about where he worked and what he did and she knew where we live. Paranoia kicked in. I don’t tell Val everything but I told Val this. It wasn’t a very good idea. She dug a much deeper hole for me to bury myself in. Val is a jaded divorcee. She swore off men and proclaimed herself as the “true definition of an independent woman”. I don’t know why I went to Val first knowing exactly how she would react.
“These men aren’t loyal,” she said, “if you ask him he’ll probably deny everything. I’ve heard stories like these before…I wonder why we even bother…men are dogs…you remember what happened with you-know-who” That did nothing but elicit more pain and anger.

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That Green Wall

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She stood there in the middle of the room and stared at the green wall. The rays of the afternoon sun sipped in through the large window on her right and cast shadows of the burglar proofing onto the green wall.

She looked out the window and stared at the branches and leaves as they swayed gently with the soft wind. She looked back at the wall and could still see them. She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them. She could still see the little spots of blood on the wall. Their colour was completely faded out and concealed by the fresh green coat of paint but their memory stuck.

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