Broken: An Abuse Survivor's Tale💜Part 3

Ch 3: I Was Hopeless, Then I Was Helped

I liked to think of my marriage to Michael in segments of ‘Years’. Mostly because each year was so different from the previous.

Year two wasn't so bad. All things considered. Michael was so pleased with my loyalty that he bought us a house. Well, a ‘house’ doesn’t quite cut it. It was a luxury home in Summerlin. It had 5 bedrooms, 7 baths, an in-ground pool, within a secluded gated community. Not to mention, it was extremely expensive. More money than I’ve ever seen in a casino.

He fully staffed the home with a housekeeper, chef, landscaper, and a "live-in" personal trainer. All female. The latter being for me, as he believed I was getting too ‘curvy’ for his taste. I snapped at him and pointed out that his tastes were shallow, faceless whores who liked fucking married men.

He punched me in the stomach. Hard. I collapsed to the ground in our living room as he stood above me and screamed, “Don’t you ever talk back to me! Ever!”

Things became tedious in Year Three. Michael made a rule about any male employees that he had: no looking at or talking to Mrs. Wilson. If anyone dared break either rule, not only would they be fired, but he would beat them ruthlessly. Additionally, he hired bodyguards to follow me around. 

If I went shopping, to socialize with his client's wives, or if we went out to find a third for the night. I was followed, continuously monitored by a tall, muscular, bald black man and a mid-sized, well-built Hispanic man. Both wore black suits, matching sunglasses, and earpieces.

Eventually, Michael decided we needed to try for a baby. He was ready to ‘pass on his legacy’ and to continue his family’s bloodline. During this period, we didn’t have other partners, thank God. It seemed things would get better for a while. 

Then, after six months of trying, my OBGYN told me conception would be impossible. I had scar tissue on my fallopian tubes that prevented the semen from getting to the egg. She did not give me an exact reason for my diagnosis besides that it just ‘happens’ to some women. My husband would not take no for an answer, so we went to four fertility specialists. They confirmed the diagnosis. Michael punched a wall and broke his hand.

But I was the problem. Not my body or anything like that, it was me. I was keeping him from being a father. Because his hand was injured, he would kick me each time a pregnancy test said negative. In every available place besides my abdomen or groin. Those were off limits because he still needed my womb. Eventually, he got tired of it. He stopped having sex with me altogether and chose to find another woman to bear his kids. He also insisted we continue our threesomes to find the ‘right fit’ for our family. He was such a disgusting, selfish pig.

By Year Four of my marriage from hell, I was completely numb. Nothing helped it either. I tried drinking from morning until night, but it just made me throw up and feel gross. Then I got a hold of some Xanax through a dancer who worked at the casino I used to work at. 

Yes, used to. During Year One, Michael didn't appreciate my spending so much time away from him, especially since I was surrounded by guys. So, he paid me ‌severance, then terminated me. Told me to use the money for whatever. Little did he know I would use almost every penny to wipe him from my memory.

Oh yeah, the pills. I almost forgot about those. I started having severe anxiety attacks to the point I couldn't sleep. Dandelion, a popular exotic dancer at the casino, offered a bottle of Xanax. She, through the rumor mill, found out what happened during our honeymoon and most nights since then. Initially, she offered to be our permanent third partner and also a surrogate for the baby. That way, it wasn't just a random whore each time. She would be someone familiar and would make sure he wouldn't be too rough with me.

 I was tempted. Not because I enjoyed our escapades with other women, but because she would look out for me like a sister. She and I were fairly close at the casino. Most nights, she would get a few drinks home from her late-night shift. Even so, I turned her down.

She asked why.

I said, " I can't stand to see another pair of tits or vagina! The thought makes me want to throw up!"

We laughed about it, hugged, and then we agreed to keep in contact. That if I ever needed a place to stay, an ear to listen, or another bottle of pills to call her.

Little did I know that I would be cashing in her offers sooner rather than later.

Everything came to a boiling point in Year Five. Michael had fired Dandelion. Her real name was Daniella Ryan. He found out she was giving me pills to keep me happy and tried to interfere with our marriage dynamic. So, like anything that brought me joy, he got rid of her.

Secretly, she stuffed a letter into my makeup bag when Michael wasn't around. It was an address. She moved to Santa Cruz with a few other dancers. She offered me a place there if I ever had the guts to leave Michael, that is.

Someday, Dande, someday. 

This overreaction caused a fuck ton of discord for us. Not that we weren't already as volatile as lit gasoline can. During a formal social outing, I blew up at him. Unloading years of abuse, neglect, and control. I called him a worthless, spineless piece of shit. That he would never amount to anything without Daddy's money, then I wished his dick would rot off from sleeping with all of those whores.

He exploded after this, in the back seat of our limo. He punched me in the face. Splitting my eyebrow open. Blood trickled down my face. Completely ruining the immaculate makeup job for the outing that he paid for.

"I wouldn't have to if my wife wasn't fucking useless!" He roared, grabbing a fistful of my hair. "You're not even that good! You're all loose!” He slammed my face into the car door twice. My vision blurred. I thought I was going to die.

Then he started tearing my dress apart and pinning me down. Adrenaline must've kicked in, because all I remember was kicking him in the balls and tumbling out of the limo while it was still running. My body crashed into the asphalt below. It shredded my bare skin. Michael didn't turn back around for me. He left me lying motionless, concussed, and blood-soaked.

Several hours, or possibly days later, I woke up in a hospital. The ‌lady doctor said a young Hispanic man brought me there. I asked if he was still here or not. She said yes and paged ‌him. Though my vision was jacked up, I knew the guy. It was one of Michael's assigned bodyguards. He saved me!

"I-I know you'll lose your job over this... " I whispered, my throat raw with emotion. "But thank you."

"You're welcome." He rasped. His accent was thick and intimidating, yet not scary to me. "What will you do now? Go back to that bastard?"

I shook my head, and tears filled my eyes. "He'll kill me!"

The doctor informed me that she had called my husband to tell him about my injuries. He refused to come get me, as I caused the accident in the first place. He said, "Send that crazy bitch away!".

The doctor gave me some information about domestic violence and said she believed I was abused, based on the extent of my injuries and my husband's reaction. She asked if I had a safe place to go.

Before I could answer, the bodyguard said, "She's coming home with me."

That man's name was Hector Ramirez, and he saved me from my abuser.

If anyone you know is being abused, suspected of being abused, or are a victim yourself, there is help available. Local shelters and organizations are a good way to start. However, if more in-depth help is needed, call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233.

And remember, love shouldn't hurt.

Disclaimer:

Disclaimer:

This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and incidents are fictitious and the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, organizations, or events are entirely coincidental.

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