I slide on my slippers and slowly creep out to see what is going on. “Mike, is that you?” I call out. God, what if it’s a burglar?
My heart races.
“Mike,” I say again with no response.
I see a smashed whiskey glass on the floor.
“Of course, it’s me. Who else were you expecting?” a slurred voice calls out to me.
“Just glad you are safe, I was a little worried,” I lie.
“I’m a big boy,” he shouts back.
“Okay, well, I’m going to head back to bed. You okay?” I say, trying to avoid any kind of altercation.
“What are you insinuating, wife? That I’m drunk?’ he slurs again.
“No babe, not at all, come to bed. You have work tomorrow,” I say to him, hoping he listens.
“I don’t need you for sex tonight,” he states, catching me by surprise. What does that mean? He doesn’t need me for sex tonight, so did he get it somewhere else?
“Okay,” I answer. I can’t argue because I’m exhausted mentally and emotionally.
“You don’t even care. You are glad. When was the last time you gave me a blow job, wifey?” he yells now aggressively.
Um, he is making no sense, and he is drunk and doing his best to harm me with his nasty words. I can’t play his games.
“Night, babe,” I say and head back to our bedroom.
My hair is yanked from behind, almost ripping it from my head.
“Stop, Mike, it kills,” I scream as the pain is so bad I’m sure it has caused my scalp to bleed.
“I was talking to you, you miserable, worthless woman,” he declares, throwing insults by the ton as if he regularly studies new ways to insult.
“I’m sorry.” I plead with him to stop.
This time, he grabs my arm and twists my elbow behind my back in a very awkward, painful way.
“, bed sounds good, I’ll show you a new way to fuck,” he commands. I feel the tears stream down my face. Oh god, I’m in hell.
He shoves my face down on the bed. I push up, but he’s on top of me with all his weight, and I feel his hardness pushing into me.
“Did you know this is my favorite position?” he asks as he pushes my nightgown up and rips off my panties, then pushes my knees apart to expose me in a painful and raw way.
Sure, we’ve done it like this before but not so brutal and rough.
“Mike, please, you are hurting me,” I plead. The old Mike has to be in there somewhere.
“Oh, I know. I like hurting you, Sienna. You think you are so perfect, but you are wrong,” he declares as I feel him remove his pants and thrust his hardness deep and firm. Pushing into my dryness causes an unwelcome burn. I hope his cock gets carpet burn.
Over and over, he thrusts, and when he’s fully inside, I die a little more.
He then wraps his hands around my neck and squeezes, cutting off the circulation. I gasp and wriggle, seeing my life flash before my eyes, but then he is slapping my ass—once, twice, I lose count after thirty—and there’s not a part of me that isn’t aching.
My once amazing husband, the man I thought was going to father my children one day, the man who won over my heart with his sweetness, has now done the unthinkable.
He’s raped me and hurt me physically and emotionally with his insults for the very last time.
When he grunts and rolls off me, I don’t move. I don’t sleep. I curl into a ball and feel numb. I’m in a psychotic state, and I stay that way until he goes to work.
HOW MUCH CAN YOU TAKE?
I’m not hesitating this time. I’m out the door, gone and leaving Mike!
I’ve had enough. I don’t deserve this hell, and honestly, I can’t take it anymore.
I’m thirty-one, frail, and brittle, on edge with anxiety, weight falling off me waiting for the next strike.
I hastily pull out my two suitcases. Last time I used them was on our honeymoon, which wasn’t that long ago. I thought we were in love, and we had talked about trying to get pregnant.
Wow. I’m glad that didn’t happen sooner rather than later.
The first thing I throw into the bag are my ultimate favorite winter boots, my fancy and expensive heels, and my beloved sandals. Then the essentials—four pairs of blue and black jeans, black leather jacket, three sweaters, a couple of dress shirts, two tank tops, my gorgeous swimming suit, two sets of pajamas, and a robe with slippers.
After I gather my makeup and beauty supplies and two towels, I bundle up my favorite blanket and wedge it in.
I’m scared about what Mike will do to the rest of my stuff.
I dig into my closet and find my boxes of photos. I don’t want these ripped to shreds, so I tuck them into any vacant spots.
Of course, my birth certificate and legal documents, as well as the check book, are all packed.
My heart races with the anxiety of being caught.
I zip up my first bag and wheel it to the door. I need to be outta here in thirty minutes in case he comes home early. I dash into the bathroom, checking the cabinets. Oh shoot, I grab my toothbrush and chuck it in. Body wash and hair products too.
I grab my overnight bag and wrap up my vase, runner, and the succulents he never appreciated.
I’m startled as the house phone rings. I check the caller ID, but I don’t recognize the number, so I let it go to the answering machine.
“Hello Sienna, are you home? It’s Phil from Mike’s office.” I hear the familiar voice of Mike’s boss. God, what else has he been up to?
“Hi, Phil. Yes, I’m here,” I answer, picking up the receiver.
“Hi Sienna, sorry to bother you, but I’m just checking in on Mike.” I hear Phil’s voice ask an odd question.
I frown, not sure what the hell he means.
“Sorry, I’m not sure what you mean. Mike left his usual time this morning. Has he ducked out for coffee, and you missed him?” I reply, sure there is a reason he is missing from work.
My conscience is screaming for me to stop with the excuses. You know he’s out of control. You should tell Phil what’s been happening. No, I can’t.
“Ahhhh no, Mike left after a half a day yesterday in a fluster, said he was coming down with something. He’s definitely not here today,” Phil states, trying to clarify my concern.
Well, I’ll be damned.
Where the f**k is my husband.
I don’t quite know what to say.
“Sienna, are you there?” Phil asks when I am silent from the shock. More goddamn lies.
“Yes, sorry Phil. I’m sure he is probably staying with his mother to keep the germs away. I’ll get Mike to call you when I hear from him. Thanks,” I declare, trying to sugar-coat the situation. God knows what Mike would do if he knew I was aware of his work absence.
I slam down the receiver, feeling pissed off, then use my cell to dial Mike’s number.
It goes to voicemail, which I’m used to, but he’s usually at work. Or is he…
But now, I’m suspicious as to where he is and who is he with.
He’s been lying, drinking, missing work, and probably cheating with that supermarket skank.
I need to search his office. It’s now or never—before I leave, and he changes the locks.
I look through the paperwork on his desk, and nothing stands out. Of course, that damn locked drawer must be hiding something. His computer is in standby mode, so I refresh the screen and go into his emails.
Wow. It’s apparent there are so many unopened emails from customers and clients. He is so reckless at the moment and not doing his work. I scroll down the emails.
A neon sign flashes when I notice a large number from a Patricia Lyre. I click on one of the attachments, and bam, there is a full front boob photo attached.
Holy shit.
I feel sick to my stomach. I don’t want to see anymore, but I also need to. I need to know what this woman is sending my husband, and I need to know exactly what a piece of shit he is for storing these photos and n
ot deleting and blocking this woman.
I’m not surprised, but I am mortified when I open ten more emails. All are pornographic or lingerie photos with everything imaginable.
He is one hundred percent cheating on me with this slut. I OFFICIALLY HATE MY HUSBAND. HE IS NOW DEAD TO ME.
Fucking hell, another email catches my eye, this one stating URGENT, and it’s from our bank, stating the apartment mortgage is overdue. How could that happen? He makes plenty of money, so how could he be so irresponsible?
Has he been gambling? Is something more going on? God, I haven’t checked our account in at least two weeks. I didn’t think I had a reason to.
I jump on the banking website, enter our login details, and I’m dumbfounded at what I find.
Fuck me…
Our account has gone from almost nine thousand dollars down to only just over a thousand in the last week.
I feel sick to the core. What is going on?
It’s like a bad dream, the worst nightmare, and I just want to wake up. Can I reverse time and not go through with our first date?
I need to stay strong and remember my game plan. Now more than ever, I need to get out and away from this poisonous man. I forward the disgusting emails to my account because I’ll need evidence, anything that will get him out of my life forever. I log out and try to leave everything the way I found it. He can’t know I was snooping.
I run to the door, collect my bags, and quickly wheel them through the door. My nerves have me shaking, but I take a deep breath and lock the door, then I scurry down the elevator to the parking lot.
I don’t turn around. I can’t. I don’t hesitate.
I hastily throw the bags in the trunk and jump in my little white car. Locking the doors, I start the engine and drive off.
I know he’s not going to let me walk away, but I need some time to digest what is going on. Could he be on drugs, or is he gambling? I know it’s excessive drinking, but maybe it’s drugs too that is making him aggressive and causing the money to disappear.
I thought I knew him.
Boy, was I wrong.
I think back to my first serious boyfriend. I was nineteen. He took my virginity, but he was gentle and understanding. A real sweetheart, until he broke my heart.
I didn’t need a man in my life. I was strong and independent, and I had my nursing career.
The saying is, you get back what you give out in life. Well, I got gypped… big time…
Skip five years later, a couple of failed first dates, setups, and online dating sites, and then BINGO the last guy I dated became my fiancé.
The Mike I met was caring, charismatic, sweet, and nurturing. He won me over with his fun and carefree conversations and his romantic side. But what I thought was him being a little possessive and controlling was just the beginning of the ultimate control—isolation and abuse.
He was like Jekyll and Hyde.
I loved the ‘good’ side, and it was there eighty percent of the time, but that slowly faded.
I never knew which side would appear, so I started to walk on eggshells around him.
I now realize that is no way to live your life.
Thankful I have a place to go, I arrive at my cousin’s apartment and park my car where Mike hopefully won’t see it. Sara is waiting and pulls me in for an inviting hug. I don’t cry because I fear I’ll never stop once I start again. I welcome the warmth of her embrace. Then I start wheeling my bags up the path toward her building.
“Let’s go inside. I won’t feel safe until we are in your building with your door locked,” I confess. I know what he is capable of, and I want away from it.
Sara grabs my overnight bag and throws it over her shoulder.
“My place is now your place, Sienna. I hope you can make yourself at home, honey,” she tells me. I nod, but a part of my brain is freaking out, starting to wonder if Mike has gone home and realized I’m not there yet.
What will he do when he can’t reach me? I’m totally unsure what to expect.
“Sara, you need to understand how bad he’s been. I’m ninety-nine percent sure he will show up here extremely pissed off.” I’ve come to expect the unexpected with him.
“I’m here for you, Sienna, no matter what.” I hope she means it.
I hope she’s ready for cyclone Mike to hit in full force.
***
As expected, Mike calls my cell over and over. I put it on silent, and it vibrates repeatedly.
He leaves messages abusing me.
“Where are you, Sienna?”
“Why are your clothes gone?”
“Get your ass back home.”
“You are married to me, so you don’t get to leave.”
I need him to know I’m not coming home. He needs to know this is a consequence of his behavior. He caused this, not me.
Me: I can’t stay in our marriage anymore. It’s over. You have hurt me for the last time.
I send him a short text.
Mike: It’s not over. It will never be over. You are my goddamn wife, and I own you. Get home this instant.
I shake my head at his ridiculousness. Was I that weak a woman that he would snap his fingers and I would come running? Who have I become? Not anymore.
“I’ll make you a hot chocolate, sweetie, and we can binge watch One Tree Hill like we used to,” Sara tells me, and I immediately smile.
“Sounds perfect.”
For the next hour, we relive our twenties. Chad Michael Murray as Lucas is just the perfect cast, and I always had a serious crush on him. I almost forget the real reason I’m staying at my cousin’s.
That is, of course, until that reason rears its ugly head. I didn’t think it would be quite so easy.
We are both startled by a loud banging on her door. One guess who it is.
“I know you are in there, Sienna. Come out so we can talk,” Mike says through the door.
I told Sara earlier just to pretend we aren’t here. I’d hate for her to get hurt because of me.
“Sienna, open the goddamn door,” he declares a little louder. I’m surprised at his calmness.
I shake my head, wondering how long he will stay civil. It lasts maybe five seconds.
Bang, bang, bang. The door shakes, and I can assume he’s now kicking it impatiently.
Bang, bang, bang. He kicks harder. Thud, thud, thud, thud. It gets louder and more intense.
Closing my eyes tightly, I inhale a deep breath and focus on the slow breaths, trying to prevent the impending anxiety attack. I’m shaking with fear and anger. He doesn’t need to break down Sara’s door. I would talk to him, but honestly, I’m scared to death of his anger, and he’s hurt me enough.
Quick thinking, I pull out my cell phone and dial his number.
“Sienna,” he answers after the second ring.
“Please stop banging down the door. Talk to me, I’m listening,” I say in resignation as I try to avoid World War III.
“Please come home. I’ll change. I never meant to hurt you.” He sobs into the phone.
Tears stream like a river down my cheek.
Liar.
It’s happened more than once now, so it’s too late for that. I wipe my eyes and hold my shoulders back, finding the strength I never knew I had.
“I’m not coming home, Mike,” I state firmly into the phone. “You hit me, hurt me, abused me, and raped me. I don’t trust you won’t hurt me again,” I say honestly, and with a tone letting him know it’s real and final.
“I promise you, Sienna. It will all stop. I’ll go to rehab. I have a drinking problem, I admit that,” he declares, and everything he says is true.
But I am staying firm on my decision not to go back to him.
“What about the other woman? You leaving work early, lying about being sick, all the money missing from our account?” I say, putting it all on the table.
No more lies or messing around.
He will not shift the blame to me, not anymore. I am the victim.
>
“Nothing. She meant nothing. You are my wife.” He finally admits he cheated. Hearing those words hurt like a knife in my heart. She can fucking have him.
“Goodbye, Mike,” I say, trying to keep it together as I hang up the phone.
I then dial the police like I should have done when he raped me.
“Sienna, open the fucking door,” he screams, crazily kicking and thumping like a madman.
Sara and I go to the other room where I break down and tell the police about the abuse, the rape, and that he is trying to break down the door. They are sending out a patrol car, but I can’t risk Sara’s and my safety. He is unstable in more ways than one. Sara holds my hand as we try to ignore the screams, the door being belted, and the endless swearing and insults.
When I hear the sirens, I cry some more. It feels final.
He will finally pay for what he did.
There is a scuffle and screaming, and all I hear is, “Mike Owens, you are under arrest for damage to private property, an alleged rape, and assaulting a police officer.”
Mike is such a silly man to hit a cop.
Finally, he is locked up.
That night, I sleep in Sara’s bed. Mike’s face haunts my dreams, and I wake up screaming.
“Shhhh, Sienna, it’s okay. He can’t hurt you anymore,” she tells me. Her arms engulf me, and I feel secure for now.
God, I hope in time I can erase these memories.
The next day, Sara and I spend the morning contacting a lawyer, and I get a restraining order against Mike. After signing some paperwork, I give a statement to the police.
I’m emotionally exhausted and collapse on the sofa, sleeping for the next three hours.
“I’ve cooked some chicken carbonara. You need to eat, Sienna,” Sara tells me as I stretch and yawn.
“Thanks so much. I am feeling famished,” I reply, and we sit and enjoy a peaceful dinner.
I toss and turn the rest of the night in the guest room, then end up reading. Fictional characters really are the best distraction.
I stay indoors for the next few days, still not ready to venture out.
Thank god for Netflix, my magical Kindle, and Sara’s easel and water paints. Art is therapeutic, no doubt about it, and the pastel colors are bringing warmth back to my life.
Overzealous Alphas Page 24
