Part of the Seven Deadly Sins Short Story Series. What is it?
This is the story of Ashley and Peter.
It is written in the style of First Person Narrative.
PART I
I hate myself the most after he forces me to do anal. I don’t even like it. In fact, I hate it. I’m not sure why he convinces me to do it all the time. Sure, I muster up the strength to tell him no sometimes. But that word is Peter’s trigger. When he hears “no” everything in my life goes to shit.
I’m not sure if he ever learned to fully process its meaning growing up. Who knows, even though his mother is a conniving bitch that probably would have left him to die on a cliff from exposure like Oedipus. Maybe he didn’t hear it enough. I doubt it. Either way, there are issues there. Deep seeded issues. And every goddamn one of them comes spilling out like a geyser when its late at night and all he can do is think about a different way he can hurt me.
He doesn’t hurt me physically. No physical scars exist. Not really. Unless it’s sex, or whatever he wants to call it. It’s getting to the point that I begin to sweat profusely every time he unzips his pants. He could be changing out of his work clothes, and it still feels like the nightmare is beginning. Sometimes it’s better to just give in and let him fuck me in his own special way – no words or kissing. All I can hear is the pain throbbing inside my skull and the dull THWAP of skin connecting. I am a helpless doll on the corner of our bed. He is the powerful figure with doll eyes. Thrusting and pain. The last thing I usually hear before he walks out of the room to go downstairs is his zipper. What a tragic way to bookend each time, right?
I don’t know if it’s rape. I’m too afraid to ask. I’ll never tell my friends. I never see them anymore, anyway. Peter doesn’t allow it. No social media, either. I have a tumblr page, but I am afraid he will find it and pick it apart or tell me I am a whore. Then he will have sex in his anger and wrath. It’s the worst ten minutes of my life, replayed daily. I wish it was at least agreed upon. But the sex never feels consensual, although it did when we first met a year and a half ago. It was great. But that changed quickly. I really miss those days. Sometimes I wish it was rape, then I could at least identify it in my mind.
Tonight, the last thing I hear is him zipping up his pants. The deed is done. Congratulations, Peter: I hope you enjoyed it. There’s blood on the toilet paper already. Here’s hoping it doesn’t get worse. He motions to me to look at the clock. It’s 8:15pm. He says four words to me: clean up the kitchen. I tell him “ok.” He can now retreat to his study to masturbate or watch TV or do whatever the fuck he does. It never involves me. My job is to clean and cry or scream into my pillow until I give up for the evening. Then he comes in and feels like the man. How truly special he is.
I tell him that I love him. He doesn’t respond. He looks into my eyes with a doll’s stare for several seconds before leaving. Those words used to mean a lot. It’s the last thing he hears coming from upstairs for the rest of the evening. That is unless our daughter has been crying in the next room over.
Return to WRATH.
Return to Seven Deadly Sins.
Delusional Thoughts From Fantasy Island 