Chapter 2
Thealina
The romance novel on his nightstand torments me.
He leaves it out every night to keep that evening haunting me.
A constant reminder of my punishment. My stump suffers from the phantom pain of being sliced off despite the healing salve.
What was once a platonic gift from the Chief Defender as an apology for his grief-induced aggressive and erratic behaviour, is now a constant reminder.
And the Chief Defender doesn’t even have a clue of the suffering his thoughtful gift caused.
Though I hold no resentment or blame toward him, it was a sweet gesture after he destroyed most of the royal castle and parts of Valandor.
It was pitiful watching him grieve the life of his destined mate, the Princess of Zolandra for a fourth, and sadly rumoured to be the final time.
The Princess finally released from the shackles of her curse.
To rub salt in a very deep, very raw wound, my husband reads a chapter every night, out loud.
To mock and belittle me and the beautiful words written on those pages.
Enchanting words of a love story that give women, like me, hope.
Hope that the kind of love written on those pages will find us.
But hope is not something my husband wants me to have—so destroy it he will.
He must have realised the male characters in these books give us women everything we don’t get from our men. And his ego must be hurt.
“Sweetpea, I’d like some tea before turning down for the night,” he says, calling from his study joined to our bedroom.
I tighten my blue silk robe and pad down the stairs to the kitchen.
The scent of tonight’s dinner of ham soup still lingers.
My near empty stomach rumbles as I breeze about the space gathering a tray, cup, sugar and cream.
It’s dark, only light from the stove and a couple of candles in the centre of the oak table.
Movement in the corner of my eye has me snapping my spine straight and my chest still, though I don’t turn; I know who it is.
“Coffee for me.” She snaps her bony fingers.
I take another small cup and brew pot for my husband’s mother, setting up the cotton filter, filling it with a few scoops of already ground up beans. I faff longer than usual, keeping my mind and hands busy whilst waiting for the water in the stove kettle to boil.
Any minute now the tapping will start. It always does when…
Tap, tap, tap.
And there it is.
Her incessant fingernail tapping she always does when she’s waiting for me. Or when she wishes to strip more meat off my bones as she considers more harmful words to infect my mangled soul.
“It’s so quiet around here these days.”
See.
I force my shoulders square, the snickle in my chest begs to be liberated. Though I’m unsure what my laugh would sound like now. Some noises I can make are pathetic throaty grunts, so I refrain from letting anything slip past my lips.
“It’s a welcome reprieve.”
In her warped mind I jabbered, dominated conversations, was quarrelsome and over-animated. In reality, I spoke only when spoken to.
Learnt a long time ago entering any dialogue, discussions or debates was futile and I would only end up being downtrodden.
The echo of her taps is absorbed by the whistle of the kettle. The squealing note jolts the old hag and halts her movements. The shriek drills into my skull, its noise too close to a scream I can no longer make.
Though my soul cries to.
The teapot is filled, then the coffee brew pot. Organising two trays with spoons, small jugs of cream, a bowl of sugar cubes for my husband’s tray and a pot of honey for his mother’s.
Turning to place the tray on the table in front of her I can’t help but notice how much older she appears these days.
Deep crevices on the corners of her lips give her the appearance of a permanent mouth frown, it somehow brings all your attention to her jaw, making her look like some sad breed of primate.
She rakes her spindly fingers through her hair. I don’t know why she does that; she barely has any. It’s thin, short and bland.
She once said to me that I’m lucky to have thick hair, lashes and eyebrows, because it couldn’t be that she has over hundred years on me; no, it was all luck.
Years of harboured rage boils beneath my surface the longer I glower at the crone who was supposed to be a mother to me.
Someone who was supposed to nurture and guide and protect.
Only her son benefits from that privilege, and I’m left on the outside of their tight circle, always reminded that I’ll never be accepted, appreciated, or even considered.
Just someone here for them to control, dominate, and abuse. Never to be valued or chosen.
At every turn I’m always reminded I will never be her or above her. Though I never wanted to be. I just wanted to be respected and loved. Equals. But my stupid brain turned its head away from all the red flags they flailed in the beginning of our courtship.
Looking back, the moment she said — “Oh, so which one are you then.” — when first introduced was when I should have sprinted for the hills.
I laughed it off at the time, but their humour left bruises.
Who honestly says that? Mothers with an emotional incestual relationship with their sons do, that’s who.
Mothers who cling to their sons like brittle old vines, choking out any woman who dares to bloom by their sons side.
Mothers who make sons their emotional partner instead of keeping their own damn husband!
That’s when the real abuse began, when his father left them, and she got her claws into her son.
Before that, my husband was a decent man and gave me a few years of an easy marriage.
“Sweetpea!”
I rip my gaze away at the tone of my husband’s voice. My fingers twitch against his tray, my nails bite into the wood, resisting the sweet urge to pour the scalding liquid over her face as I pass by.
Oh, to watch the flesh on her sagging, smug face melt.
The contents of the tray rattles with each step up the creaking stairs, I draw in a shaky breath and dig deep into my soul to find a small well of composure that’ll help me through these next moments with him.
Nudging the heavy door with my foot, I scan the bedroom for my husband. He sits up in bed, under the covers, his broad chest bare, with my novel in his hand.
I take another breath again, placing the tray on his nightstand.
He doesn’t look at me.
“Did you go to the Fire lands and harvest the tea leaves yourself?” He mumbles, chewing on the temple tip of his reading glasses, shuffling some pages.
No, darling husband, I was pre-occupied in restraining myself from maiming your mother.
He can’t hear my thoughts—thank the Gods—there’s solace in being able to speak my true feelings in my head, unapologetically.
And without repercussion. At least he can’t take them away from me.
Though given the ability to do so, I’m sure he would.
Thank the Fates we don’t have a mating bond.
Luckily for me, he’s just a mid-tiered warlock with no special ability other than basic Air magic.
I’d have been dead a long time ago had he been gifted with telepathy or extrasensory perception.
Though, those abilities are outlawed, most relinquish their power back into the lands, some chose execution.
The deceased Queen’s paranoia caused many unfortunate deaths.
I prepare his tea; three sugar lumps, pour the tea, stir until dissolved, two splashes of cold cream, stir and I’m done—just how he likes it.
Maybe a dollop of spit too, darling husband? A dash of yellow jasmine? Purely for flavour of course.
He takes his cup from my outstretched hand, minus any saliva, or poison, and slurps down the beverage, licking residue off his lips with that slab of red muscle one may call a tongue. I’m sure he does it to torment me. The fat stump at the back of my mouth twitches with envy.
He sprawls out on the bed as I try to squeeze in, his body and energy is oppressive.
“Now, where were we?” he says, flicking through the book. “Ah, here we are. Settle in…” he lifts his arm over my head, tugging me into his side, my head resting against his bare chest as his fingers draw lazy circles on my hip. “…it’s about to get really interesting.”
I doubt that.
He begins… “Even though she doesn’t understand it yet, she feels it, the tug, the bond, the intoxicating pull of fate.
She kills me, then breathes life back into my body with each brush of her fingertips against my skin.
I can feel my soul being consumed by a need transcending reason, a hunger—no, a craving that only she can sate.
Her touch is solace and salvation, chaos and destruction. A promise of redemption in the midst of anarchy.”
Here comes the mockery.
“This is ridiculous,” he snickers. “No wonder females minds are so warped. Males don’t think or feel like this.”
And maybe that’s the problem.
He reads more, stopping only to exhale light breathy chuckles and one line jeering. “… I hope she’s realising this is where she belongs, where she’s always belonged—in my arms.”
“That’s not only where she belongs, right Sweetpea.”
Yes, darling husband, she belongs in the kitchen too. Or on her knees ready to service her male. The urge to roll my eyes is strong, but no doubt he’d feel that movement against his chest and scald me. Even my non-verbal communication is controlled by him.
Is it exhausting, performing for an audience of one? Or is your mother clapping from the shadows?
“His touch is gentle. Soothing strokes against my cheek as his thumb traces the curve of my lips. ‘Don’t,’ he murmurs, his voice a soft melody in the darkness. ‘Don’t do that. Tell me what you need. Use your words, my love.’ — said no man. Ever.”
Imagine being so emotionally stunted you think tenderness is weakness. Sadness swims through my veins, but also determination… and hope. Hope that I find this kind of love in my future.
“I ache,” he squeals in attempt to capture a wanton feminine tone.
Embarrassingly unrealistic.
In my mind, it’s soft and breathy as her body is consumed with the desire her lover brings to her. I imagine their faces close, noses touching, sharing breath, moaning into each other’s mouths, hands mapping each other’s soft curves and hard edges.
“I’m too lost in a haze of sensation, my body aching for more.
His hand, firmly on my mark, heightening the pleasure, grinding his thick, throbbing cock against my core, pushing me closer and closer to the edge.
The throb in my pussy…” His laugh is hysterical as he struggles to finish the paragraph. “… thumps furiously for release.”
“Wow,” he drawls. “This author is untouched, clearly. Poor thing has her head in the clouds if she thinks you can climax like that.”
It’s called foreplay, darling husband. And yes, we can climax doing just that. We could rub ourselves on a person’s thigh and be able to orgasm. Even a pillow if one desires.
How this man has forgotten some things we had done many, many moons ago when he courted me is astonishing. Makes me wonder if his mother slipped any memory erasure potions into his beverages.
“This book is prime example of why females should be workers, not thinkers… ‘The energy between us telling me no matter what tragic end I meet, we would always find our way back to each other.’”
“If he had any sense, he’d make sure that didn’t happen. Perhaps find a mute wench without any stretchmarks. As if you thought to read this trash.”
You should try reading with your mouth shut, you’d double your little charm.
He relishes in finishing up by putting down the female characters body. He does it to sow the seed in my head to watch what I eat.
If I get any skinnier, I’ll snap in half.
But this man who, by the day, proves over and over again how dense he is, doesn’t realise, or is too arrogant and ignorant and damn right rude to accept that stretchmarks are natural.
Caused by pregnancy, weight loss and yes weight gain.
Even growing your innocent adolescent body into an adult—you know, a normal transition—can cause stretchmarks.
The silent laugh bubbling in my chest threatens to steal my air supply and explode from my throat, because the fool has stretch marks too.
On his underarms and pectorals. I’m literally laid on these things he claims to be hideous right now.
“That’s enough for tonight.”
Yay. One more page and I might’ve chewed through my own wrists.
The book is snapped shut and tossed onto the tray, the pages getting wet from the dribble of tea he left in his cup.
“Come here.” He rolls me onto my back and bunches up my shift, exposing my most intimate area that doesn’t want to be touched right now. “Do you ache, Thealina?” He mocks, sliding himself between my legs.
I say nothing, well I can’t say anything, but even if I could it would do me no good. That’s when the manipulation and coercion would start, and I use less energy accepting this for what it is than putting up any kind of fight right now.
Instead, I hide in the crook of his neck as I usually do, while he enters my dry vagina and rocks against me, trying my best to block out the husband who doesn’t believe marital rape exists.
Not all rape is violent. Some rapes are silent.
I’m never touch deprived, never—though I wish I was.
Keep rocking, darling. The sooner you’re done, the sooner I can imagine your funeral.