Phantom

May 3, 1944

I don’t know if I’ve ever been so hurt.

My mother has called me many names in my life. Spit many insults at me. Degraded me in ways that have stuck with me for decades.

None of that compares to what John did to me last night.

In our years together, our lovemaking has always been gentle. Soft. The two of us hidden under the covers, nearly silent, as to not wake our daughter down the hall.

Last night, he ravaged me.

And it hurt.

Had he been in his right mind, had he even known who I was, I might have loved it. The aggressiveness, the untamed wildness to it, and the loud grunts coming from his throat that I don’t think I have ever heard before.

Except he didn’t know who I was. He didn’t take care of me, and ensure I was ready for him. He didn’t care about my well-being. He didn’t care that, in his mind, I was another woman.

It hurt.

It still hurts.