This Is Love

Reads: 318  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Ironic how hateful loving can be.

Submitted: March 28, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 28, 2016



I don't recall when the fists started landing on my skin, nor do I recall when the pain deepened from my bones to my soul. Maybe the pain was always there, covered by his smile and soft fingers on me but announced by his heavy and harsh knuckles.

I was always busy. Having the highest placement in my company's hierarchy demands so. However, when I saw Abaddon's eyes, I somehow pushed off enough time to spend with him on dates and adventures. No, I did not like dating a powerful congressman, but I couldn't help it. Somehow, he became my wanting leisure from life itself, so when he said... he said he loved me, and he laid on his knee, I couldn't say no. I simply cried and hugged him. I love him. That was love.

We lived together in his house, lavish, a good fit for a powerful man such as himself. He was sweet with his words and sour with his tongue. I felt comfortable around him, like I could merely lay back in his warm embrace whenever it got too cold. His strength was admirable and persistence, inspiring. I just couldn't not fall. I just never expected how hard I would hit the ground.

Approximately a year ago, it disappeared. He looked at me differently; he wasn't sweet nor sour, he was bitter and ardent, like laying my hand on a heated stove. We had just been married for a few months, but gravitation shifted early on. I felt cold in his house, so I stayed in work as long as I could. He was distant and evading, so we looked at the opposite sides of the bedroom. I think he might have hated me. "No, I need him. He loves me." I told myself.

Fast forward to a few months ago, he started getting the episodes, getting angry and anxious with any detail or setback. Once, he was sitting in the dining room with his elbows on the table and palms on his face. I approached him, having arrived from work, and placed my hand on his should- SMACK. My face jerked to my left, and I stepped back onto the wall. He was looking at me, shooting a flustered expression, breathing out of control. I felt heat on my ear and heart beat hustle. He stood up, pushing both the sit and the table away, causing a chair at the other side of the table to fall silently on the carpeted floor. As I heard his footsteps walking up each wooden stair, I started sinking down onto the floor and landed once the door to our bedroom shut. I couldn't shake off a feeling of disgust in my throat. "I shouldn't have disturbed him." I told myself. My arms trembled, as well as my jaw. I sobbed in disgust, for myself, silently whispering "I hate myself."

The slaps did turn into fists as time worsened, but at least they weren't more than once a day. Besides, he loves me. He does. And I need him. The bitter flavor of his look, the agonizing distance of his entity, the metallic taste of his love. It's all love. It's how my father loved me, and it's how he loved me at that moment.

A few days ago, I left work early to hang out with some friends at the mall. Glenn, Susan and I were sitting on a bench between some kiosks, but mostly they conversed between themselves about their kids or bad influences as well as the campaign party he was planning for the next day. "Hey." Glenn snapped at my face.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"What's wrong?" Susan questions.

"Nothing, just been really tired." I smiled a bit, a most effective deception.

"Is that makeup? You never wear makeup. I mean, I'm not complaining. It's just a peculiar sight." Glenn noticed.

"Nothing. I'm alright."

"Why are you wearing makeup though?" Glenn pushed.

"I wanted to." I demanded. Glenn proceeded to pointing at a spot on my arm. "What is that?"

"It looks like a bruise covered with makeup." Susan indicated, and I yanked my arm away furiously. "Stop." I commanded fierily with the flames growing.

"Did you hit yourself? Did someone hit you?" Glenn asked directly with no space for a circumlocutory answer. I looked forward, my eyes watering in agitation.

"I'm calling the police." Susan announced.

"No! Do not call the police."

"What is wrong with you? You have to leave him." Susan interjected.

"Nothing is wrong. I already told you."

"So those aren't bruises on your arm?" Glenn asked.

"It's not what you think."

"Honey, this is not your fault, but it becomes you fault when you do nothing about it." Glenn added.

"What the hell would you know? You've been single your whole life, and this is probably why." Glenn reddened and cussed out "Fuck you." Both her and Susan stood and left. I instantly regretted what I said, yet I stayed still, didn't speak, barely even breathed.

I entered my car without turning it on and just sat. I didn't want to cry, so the tears just flowed down my cheeks swiftly. "What's wrong with me? I'm so stupid." I kept on. My arms trembled, as well as my jaw. Again, I whispered "I hate myself."

I drove back to the house and crossed the threshold. I could tell he was inside because of the footsteps from upstairs. I was relieved we weren't in the same floor, which facilitated the stalling from going upstairs by heading to the kitchen silently and cleaning the dishes. While washing the carbs off the plates, I looked at our backyard through the window. The sun was setting, and the light, dissipating as viscous as molasses.

I felt a mosquito buzz on my ear, spontaneously, I flinch by throwing a plate I had been holding in my hand. The shatter resonated throughout the house.

Abaddon reached the first floor and caught me cleaning the mess. "How was your day?" he asked indifferently leaning on a wall and wearing a black suit.

"Good." I answered without looking straight at him while picking up the mess and walked to the trash to dispose the pieces of porcelain.

He then placed his hand on my right shoulder and turned me around, pushing me to the wall and pressing his lips strongly on mine, inhaling my breaths as he pressed deeper, but I pushed him away and ducked under to the living room. It had been so long, and I've longed for sexual attention, but no. His lips weren't sweet anymore, just full of desire.

I stopped and turned to see him behind me. "I don't want to." I explained, but he grabbed my wrist and pulled me onto him pressing his lips once again. I pushed away from the kiss, but found myself stuck in his embrace. "Stop!" His hand on the back of my neck pushed our lips together again. I kicked his crotch, and he pulled away in pain. "I said I don't want to!" I screamed with arms and limbs quivering under the weight if the insanity.

"What do you mean you don't want to? Get in bed or I'll drag you there you bitch!" he screamed even louder.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I exclaimed. His knuckles landed on my face. My face landed on the floor. My sobs blew through my eyes and mouth. He then said "What is wrong with you? Why are you on the floor? Get in bed!"

My cheeks wet, my hands trembling and my jaw as well. I whispered "I hate myself." before he grabbed my ankle and pulled me into the guest room.

The raw occurrences of dissipating innocence stabbed me physically. Whenever I looked away, he grabbed my cheeks and made me look at him. Whenever I sobbed, he slapped me. I could only close my eyes to evade his face. His disgusting face. Yet, I did nothing else to rebel. I succumbed. Because he loved me. This is love. The love Father showed to Mother and me, and the love he showed me at that moment. I still loved him. And I couldn't hate myself more.

The next day is today. I haven't slept nor moved. But I need to get out, so I hustle quietly to the bathroom and lock the door. It was still night. The electric light hits my body with clarity for the mirror. My left cheek has purple and black disfigured bruises. I lift my tank top and see why my ribs hurt so much, with all those blackish spots of pain. I see my hands are still trembling. My cheeks are still wet, or maybe my tears are still streaming. I feel disgust. I feel dirty. I feel so dirty. I hit the shower pouring shampoo all over me and scrub and scrub and SCRUB AND SCRUB AND SCRUB AND SOB! AND SCRUB!


I sit on the floor with the water still landing viciously landing on me at its maximum heat, letting the shampoo container drop. My chin lays on my knees. The dirt lays on my skin. The water is unable to purify it. And I stay there, looking at the wall. I just sit in the cleansing box full of devil's play.

After some time, I hear his car scream to life and leave the house, and I turn off the shower. I can't think about anything. I can't feel anything, or maybe I feel everything simultaneously in my chest. I walk out of the bathroom slowly and step into the living room. The guest room is wide open, and I glare into it. Whispers build up in my ears. Moans... Sobs... Screams... slaps, SHUT. The door is closed, and my hand is on the handle.

I sit on the couch looking at the TV, with lack thinking, without lack of feeling.

Click! It's five in the afternoon. I have to get ready for the campaign party. I put on a dark red dress and black high heels, subsequently I walk into the bathroom again to brush my hair wavily. I then glance at my makeup materials on the sink and take hold of the powder. As I am nearing the powder to my face, I stop, looking into the mirror at my reflection. Seeing the bruises and cuts near my lips, I stop, yet I proceed to drowning myself in powder, suffocating myself. My eyes water, but I don't let any tears fall. Lipstick, powder, nails, powder, breath, powder. I finish at six, the time the event is supposed to begin. And so I jump into the car and drive to the center the event is being held in.

The campaign party is lavish and dim, with wines, champagne and pastries. I look and smile. Smile, smile, smile. It's all I can do. Subsequently, he offers his elbow, and with hesitation, I wrap my arm around it, feeling the flames intensify and my eyes already watering.

"Hello." Some gentleman greets him.

"Right back at you." Abaddon responds. I smile my pain away. A most efficient deception.

"Who might this lady be?" The gentleman asks.

"Mr. Mayor, this is my beautiful wife." I smile harder to not let my flame burn down the building.

"Beautiful she is. Are you okay ma'am? You seem shaky." I hadn't noticed my arm trembling from the distress, but I still smile.

"Yes. Just have to use the ladies room. Excuse me." I swiftly leave his side and walk into the bathroom, throwing my purse on the sink and resting my upper body on the counter with my arms. My ribs still hurt. I look directly at the mirror, feel a lump in my chest, a hole in my heart. He just had to fuck with both holes didn't he, and they both hurt just as much. I feel a scorch burning behind my eyes. I can't think. I have to stop thinking. I can't recall. I have to stop burning. Am I breathing? I can't breathe. I have to breathe. I have to stop. It needs to


I leave the bathroom in a blank haze. I can't stop. I can't stop. People start whispering around me, but I can't stop thinking. I just walk. Step and step.

"What happened?" Abaddon responds to the dripping red drops escaping my arm. I can't.

"Was it good?" I ask. The mayor shifts his sight to and fro Abaddon and me as a crowd gathers around my bleeding corpse. Abaddon laughs nervously. "ANSWER THE QUESTION!" I demand in a scream. Everyone falls silent. Abaddon doesn't respond, but his anxiety shows through his eyes. "Was I enough for you inside? Did you like fucking me around?"

"You're drunk." He announces.

"No. I'm dead." I clarify.

"Guards! Event is over! Lead everyone out!" Abaddon screams, and the guards obey, pushing everyone out of the center.

Abaddon grabs my arm and drags me into the bathroom. "What did you do?" Abaddon fiercely asks.

"It's not what I did." I answer directly, staring straight at him. My eyes water, my arms tremble and my jaw as well, in scorching anger. And I say "I hate you."

Ironic how similar love and hate are.

He has a moment of astonishment. "You can't clean dishes without breaking plates. You are a woman and my wife. Why the fuck can we not have sex?" He steps closer and closer, but I stand my ground. I don't love him, I love the illusion of him. My father didn't love Mother and me. He objectified us. I am scared, terrified. I feel the dirt he left in me twirl, but I'm also angry. SO, so angry. He throws himself on me, kisses my neck, bites it. I scream, kick, hit. He doesn't budge until I bite his shoulder with flaming sharp fury. "Go fuck yourself!" I scream as I pull away and sit up on the wall.

"But I love you."

"Oh. Fuck you."

He looks at me as his face reddens and charges at me. Punch, punch, punch. My ribs, my face, my chest. It's too hot. I'm burning. I hate him. So much. I want him


... dead. The sound is so loud, it dizzies me for a moment. My hands tremble more than ever as I hold the pistol I sneaked out of one of the guards' pockets. The smell of gun powder mixes with the scent of blood. I sob once horrifyingly. I see traces of blood on my hand, and his body sprawled on the floor with dead open eyes. I stand and look at the mirror. I point the gun at my head and no. I can't shoot. Suddenly, I relax. The trembling stops, my vision clears and the moment is here. I know what I want. I look back at him, at Abaddon. BANG. Again at one eye. BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG... BANG. I let the gun drop to the floor and approach his no longer identifiable face. I see a crucifix around his neck and lift it close to my face. "A great deception indeed. And a dangerous one at that." I hear the sirens wail, and I fall to the floor next to him.

© Copyright 2018 Christian Andino. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments: