He was never going to change. That was the realisation I came to as he punched away at my petite body. The blows came so often now that it was hard to keep tract of what I was being beaten for. It had no special reason now; if the meal got cold before he came home, his favourite shirt wasn’t washed, the beds weren’t made, dishes were still in the sink or simply if he had a bad day at work — it just didn’t matter, as long as he wasn’t pleased with something, I would be his punching bag. The tears that streamed down my face no longer eased the numbness I felt. His words of love and affection after a beating no longer comforted me. His apologies were useless, the same for his promises of never hitting me again. They were all pointless. I was dumb and naïve. I was in denial when I thought if I stayed through the worst of him, I would finally enjoy the best of him. But I couldn’t be more wrong. I never knew Steve to be a violent man. When we first met he was such a gentleman; opening car doors, pulling chairs and calling everyday just to say “I love you”. The first time I took him home, my mother was overwhelmed with his mannerism and etiquette. He appeared so harmless; he made it so easy to fall in love with him. But looking back now, that seems all an act, almost similar to life in the jungle where a predator sometimes puts his prey at ease before devouring. He had me so fooled that after two years of dating, I was so ecstatic when he asked me to marry him. It was Valentine ’s Day and he put the engagement ring in the arms of a teddy bear that said, “Will you marry me?” It was so romantic. Those were the memories I held on to whenever he hit me. But it was time to let go of the past and face reality.

The many compliments he rained on me before we were married were exchanged with insults. Instead of being his inspiration to live everyday, I was now a thorn in his side. I guess it’s true that after the fanfare of the wedding comes the storm of the marriage. But I never thought mine would be so violent. Everyone that knew Steve and I referred to us as two peas in a pod, as the complement to the other. I became caught up in this delusion too that I ignored the first slaps and verbal abuse. I told myself he didn’t mean to do it and there was no reason for concern. I should have known that all it took was one slap to start years of physical abuse.

But it was hard for me to comprehend that the same hands that once so tenderly caressed my body were abusing it now. I found myself staring at Steve one day trying to see if the man I married was still there but even that caused him to slap me. He said I had no right watching him so strongly as if he was my child. Steve became so obsessed with proving that a man was superior to a woman that he thought me staring at him was some sort of challenge to his masculinity. He became so possessive and controlling that I had time limits whenever I left the house and if I broke curfew, day or night, I would be beaten. I wasn’t allowed to talk on the phone unless Steve approved or could listen in on the other line. Family visits were limited. His insecurity was the worst; if we were walking down the road and a man (that I didn’t even know) looked at me, he would accuse me of having an affair and for sure he would beat me when we got home. This was my life for three years and I was tired of it. But I was so fearful of leaving.

I actually tried to once but before I could leave the house, my neighbour, Mrs. Spencer, called Steve and told him that she saw me, from through a window, packing a suitcase. Within minutes he was home enquiring what I was doing. I couldn’t dare tell him the truth, so to save myself from blows I told him I was packing clothes to donate to charity. Lucky for me he didn’t bother to search the suitcase or else he would have found my passport and a stash of money I was saving up. If Steve had come home while I was leaving, it would have been that Mrs. Spencer signed my death warrant all because she couldn’t mind her own business. Why didn’t she call the police or Steve himself the many times he assaulted me in that same room she saw me through? She had no idea of the horror I suffered at the hands of my husband. The fear I lived with was getting the better of me and I was desperate for a way out.

But even a suicide attempt didn’t change Steve’s abusive ways. In fact when I came home from the hospital after having my stomach flushed of the pesticide I ingested, Steve beat me. I was so weak that I couldn’t even scream. He kept yelling at me for embarrassing him in such a way and as his hands penetrated my body all I wanted to do was die. I was mad at the doctors for saving my life only to send me home to have it taken like this. Telling someone wouldn’t do much good to me either. Either they wouldn’t believe me, as many people idolized the “great” relationship Steve and I shared or confronting him would set him off and cause him to beat me even more. But I didn’t want that life anymore; I wanted to be loved and adored, so after staring at myself in the mirror, a few days after, completely naked, I found a new appreciation for myself. I wanted to live and I was determined to fight back.

I waited for Steve to leave for work. This was the day I was going to take a stand for myself; this was going to be my freedom day. All his years of abuse were going to end and when I was finished with him, he would never want to hit another woman. I placed a strong dose of sleeping tablets in Steve’s drink and had it waiting for him when he came home from work. He drank it all up as usual and within minutes he was knocked out. I dragged him down to the basement of our home and tied him to a spare bed we had in storage there. I cut off all his clothes and taped up his mouth. I waited patiently as a lioness in hunt for him to awake. It was priceless the look on his face when he woke up.

I had needles soaked in pepper sauce and pricked him all over his body with them. I made tiny cuts with razor blades in the palm of his hands and packed them with salt. I removed the tape on his mouth to listen to his screams, the same way he listened to mine. But his screams only brought joy to me as no one else could hear them. I poured vinegar down his throat and roughly pulled out some of his chest hairs. He begged and cried but I didn’t care. I begged and cried for years and it didn’t stop him from hitting me. This was my time.

I sifted itching powder on his privates. I burnt him with porridge and oil, shaved his head. He was going to pay for every time he laid his hands on me. I gave him dirt to eat whenever he was hungry. It was cruel but revenge fuelled me. I tortured Steve like this for two days. I sent in a forged “immediate leave of absence” to his workplace so there would be no one looking for him. When ever friends called for him I told them that he was out of the country on a business trip. There was no one to help him, no one to save him.

I didn’t want him to die; living through the torment would be much more satisfying. I packed my bags and left Steve in the basement. I was a new woman
and for the first time in years I felt a sense of worth. Walking out the door free from Steve’s abuse took a lot of weight off my shoulders. If Mrs. Spencer is as nosy as she was the day she called Steve, she would notice me leaving and go over to our house and find him. It really didn’t matter. I know I should have left Steve years ago and what I did to him wasn’t the answer but “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”.