It was the first time in my life that I had been punished with violence. I had cried silently for several hours, the skin of my legs lacerated by the blows of the rod he had given me to make me return for the lesson.
It was probably effective in preventing deviant behavior from recurring, but I would never have broken a vase of my own free will, so this kind of treatment was pointless. I knew what I was doing, and I tried my best, even though it was difficult. This kind of punishment wasn't going to be just occasional mistreatment, but yet another chore that would happen more and more often, more and more cruelly, and for less and less. If I left a stain on his white clothes, I was punished; if I cried, I was punished; if I ate noisily, I was punished. Despite all this, I still enjoyed these strokes of the cane compared to the punishments he reserved for me in the evening. The sunset, once so beautiful, had become a torment because I knew I would have to spend the night with him. It was becoming repetitive, so sometimes he liked to hurt me; it amused him and gave him pleasure.
I was slowly forgetting what I had felt doing it with Behean, and at the ripe old age of 13, I told myself that my love for Behean, our psychic and moral connection, I would never again find anyone capable of making me feel that way, never again. To put things in perspective, I told myself it was a way for him to decompress from his mental load, because he spent his days writing letters that he delivered once a week. He spent his afternoons away from home, and it was a moment of peace for me, a time when I could take a break from my work without him noticing and forcing me to do more.
I wanted to paint. I was having a lot of nightmares but couldn't talk about them. They all depicted objects from the house now, like the door, the cup, and the tablecloth with a hole in it. I was quickly learning to control these dreams to avoid being punished. I had to sew the tablecloth back on before he noticed, avoid touching the table, and keep the door tightly shut so the cold wind wouldn't get in and put him in a bad mood.
My life had become a race against time to appease him, since he was constantly angry and tense
It had been three months since I got married and...I hadn't bled since. That evening, as he was just finishing making love to me, I caught my breath and moved with difficulty so I could talk to him before he fell asleep next to me.
"Izua...I think I'm pregnant..."
He rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair with a sigh. I didn't understand this reaction...didn't he want children?
"Of course you are, otherwise I would have noticed already. You haven't bled once even though you're ripe."
I sat staring at my bare belly...there was a child growing inside. I was anxious but relieved; it meant we could put our marital duties on hold until I had this child, right?
"...we don't need to do this anymore then...I already have one child, we can't have another one now..."
He sat down next to me, his eyes dark, while my face was so soft and sweet. It wasn't long before he slapped me and forced me back into position.
"I don't want to! I don't want this anymore! I don't like it!"
"Who asked you to love?! I'm your husband, you're the one who has to please me, not the other way around! I took you back when you'd already been used by someone else! What more do you want?! FOR ME TO REFRAIN FROM SOME WHORE?!"
I stared into his eyes, tears streaming down my face without even flinching. I didn't know which eye to look at as he took me violently. Why... it hurt so much. I didn't like it, I struggled and told him to stop... why was he ignoring me...
I'm human too, I also have the right to express what I like or don't like?
That night I had no respite...
For an older man, he had much more energy than me and was far too rough. My body burned constantly, I had difficulty moving in his hand, and he always left bruises on my wrists when he did it to me.
I was beginning to dread even the daytime because his demands sometimes came in the middle of a cleaning session or a meal. Whenever he wanted, I had to lift my dress and let him take me and make me suffer like a wild animal... not a man, much less a husband
Behean...oh Behean...if only you could have forgiven me that day.
My love turned to anger, my hatred for my husband to a man whose face was blurred and whose sweet memories were darkened by our last exchange of glances.
Traitor... even if I had made a mistake... you should never have abandoned me to such a life, never. Breathing became a chore. My stomach ached every day, I didn't eat enough because I was punished with my meals... My stomach was swollen, I was pregnant, I was in pain. So much pain that I could have screamed if I hadn't had that torturer by my side. If I weren't... so weak... I would have gone to tell you things to your face... and I would have begged you on my knees to marry me despite my mistakes... if I hadn't given up so quickly, maybe in return you wouldn't have abandoned me...
I was 14 years old. That year had forged in me automatic responses that allowed me to be concise, quick, clean, and precise, just as he wanted. Especially since my pregnancy was nearing its end, I was experiencing less violence. Lately, I'd been having painful dreams because I was experiencing a lot of contractions in my stomach, both in reality and within the immersion of my dreams, because I saw myself giving birth.
I couldn't sleep or endure the physical contact, so I did the bare minimum because he had given me permission. I dreaded the day I would have to give birth alone. It scared me; I didn't know what to do, and I quickly became unconscious in situations like that.
During dinner, sweating with worry, I told him in a trembling voice:
"I'm scared. I'm afraid of hurting our child...or of dying."
"You're young, it's your first time, but fear has no place in childbirth. I've seen my wife give birth many times, I'll support you."
The smallest sign of kindness from him felt like an immense gift. The better I did things, the more I became his ideal, the more he softened. It helped me do my job and feel less like a nobody, or maybe I was just used to it.
It was in the middle of the night that I felt something running between my legs. I didn't know what it was; I was afraid I'd wet myself, so I got up to clean myself, but it wouldn't stop...it was strange
"Izua... excuse me... I... I'm scared... there's something wrong..."
I had started the labor without realizing it. Fortunately, it was particularly quick for me because, with all the effort I was making, I had thinned what was holding my baby in my womb. It could have been dangerous, I could have lost him. Fortunately, when he finally came out, when I had never been in so much pain in my life, I felt an unusual relief. As if...my life was saved, that it was taking a new turn.
I couldn't enjoy it for very long because I had lost too much blood and ended up losing consciousness. It took me several days to regain my strength. During this time, I saw very little of Izua. He stayed in his office or went to make food. He must have been aware of the difficulty of giving birth, so he did everything I couldn't do for the rest of the week. I also had the baby to take care of. I had everything to arrangement beside him and I breastfed him so it was pretty simple. I just had to change his clothes. He had eyes of a such pure blue that when he stared at me I saw the man I had painted when I had my first visions. That man who brandished his sword with an expression of immense guilt. So...could this be...
I lifted him up to my face :
"I'll call you Amaiera, because I'm glad I brought you into this world...and because I don't want you to be the man of the prophecy."
"Oh..."
I kissed him. I spent my days kissing him all over his body. On his cheeks, on his stomach, on his head, and even on his adorable little feet that hadn't yet touched the ground. He was quickly becoming chubby and even more adorable to kiss.
He looked robust, he was a good weight according to Izua, he was destined to become a great warrior. It bothered me; it was as if he wanted to push my son to become the one of the prophecy. A warrior...in this dangerous world. Might as well send him to the slaughter
I couldn't deny that by the end of the week I was the one sent to the slaughterhouse. Painful, frequent intercourse, which, having just come out of pregnancy, threatened to plunge me back into this exhaustion.
"The baby's crying, I have to go..."
"Let him cry, he'll keep crying if you indulge all his whims."
He beat me again as soon as he was unhappy, becoming violent again at night. What I had glimpsed was only a reflection of my wretched state. Now that I was better, he no longer had any reason to treat me well.
It was worse than I liked it; I was back there, toiling away, cleaning from top to bottom all day, but that wasn't enough. I also had to carry our son everywhere, wrapped in a sheet on my back in case he got hungry, felt lonely, or soiled himself
I quickly became breathless and...unexpectedly, I was pregnant again. I vomited a lot, stopped eating, and slept poorly despite being exhausted.
"I'm pregnant again."