The Devil in Blue Jeans

Sometimes I wonder if suffering is my ultimate destiny. Every great moment in my life has a very little life span before shit hits the fan. I can never smile for long, laugh for a while, and enjoy anything without a dark cloud looming. I hate to start with a sob story about how my life went to shit and why we should all gather here for a pity party.  It’s just that I married Satan and I have been quietly stewing in my own hell for 10 years. I hate myself for ignoring the red flags and enduring physical assault, and mental and emotional abuse. My husband, outwardly a charming man and loved by many is a narcissistic motherfucker. I have decided to tell you a story about how after ten years of marriage, I am sitting in a trashed bedroom, with a black eye.

I am definitely cursed. I am that kid that was picked last in everything, barely had real friends, was always categorized at the bottom, and was generally not likable. I am my parent’s least favorite child and I have many instances of being wrongly accused of shit I didn’t do. Beaten up for no absolute reason and greatly misunderstood. I cannot say I am ugly or unattractive, I am cute. It’s that my entire life is a series of unfortunate incidents. If it’s not some bullshit it is some other colossal bullshit. A girl can never catch a break. Growing up feeling unloved and excluded it was easy to fall for a man who proclaimed his undying love for me. It was a walk in the park for these niggas and all they needed to do is display some affection, yodel the words “I love you” and bingo they got me. The thought of someone thinking I am worthy of their love was a mind-blowing concept to me. Finally, I was seen, heard, and loved. Every reason to be susceptible to any form of abuse.

As soon as I turned 19, I lost my virginity in a dingy, dark, dirty motel room. I remember the musty room with decaying bed linen and roaches creeping up the walls. I didn’t care about all of that, it was this man who was begging to pick the flower that had all my attention. He promised to marry me, hell he promised the world and I ate it up like crayon eating kid. Gosh, I was naïve and stupid. I wish I knew what I know now and I would have probably made better decisions. No one told me about sex, had no idea what I was doing, what it meant and the consequences that came with it. I just felt I should give it up to this boy who looked at me like I meant the world to him. That is all that mattered. I was valid.

It was so uneventful, I felt nothing, and wondered what was the hype all about? Sex became a tool to get the attention I needed, but it wasn’t long until the boy who deflowered me decided to dip. I thought I was going to die from heartbreak because you see, as women sex is very personal because the entire act happens inside of us. It is not easy to just get over someone and move on. A part of us is taken away. My social life was dead since I centered everything around my boyfriend. Girls did not really like me because I came off as aloof. Put it on this darn resting bitch face that never knew how to smile. I was literally alone. I went through the most gruesome shit alone. I remember this prick that got me pregnant and coerced me into an abortion. I did it, by myself, the trauma handled it alone, the physical pain, heavy bleeding, I endured alone. It is even worse in a regressed society that screams pro-life and ostracizes the girl who flushes a two-week embryo away, as a murderer. So, I suffered in silence, ashamed and with all the guilt of a murderer.

If the internet was there maybe I would have all the information to guide me from randomly going at life without a plan. A mentor maybe, someone who cared enough to ask, are you okay? I found my place in society and embraced it. I was the slut marked with the scarlet ‘A.’ The girl who really didn’t care about anything. It was so much easier to be reckless and do whatever I want. The freedom of being out of the straight-jacketed social norms is one that I enjoyed a little too much. I didn’t have to belong, please anyone and grovel for validation. Mentally I was messed up, every day was a fight to keep my head above the water. Lost probably, depressed most of the time but excellent at covering it up by being an outgoing and loud person. Internally I suffered. No one knew of course, but I felt younger me needed just one person to take me in. One person who didn’t accuse me of being a whore, one person who saw the scared child inside of me. One person who understood me without judgment. I was constantly fighting with everyone because I didn’t turn out be to be the stellar all-around girl.  I felt people expected too much from an empty girl. How do you pour out of an empty cup?

Men became repulsive. All of them secret pervs waiting to pussy con an unsuspecting girl. They don’t love like they used to. I caught on to that rather quick and guarded my body viciously. Using and dropping them like a bag of hot potatoes became the mantra. They were a means to an end, rope them in, lead them on, and boom, ghost the motherfuckers. It was a game I loved playing. Men are easy it’s sad how you can play them with the promise of sex. They will do anything. The little dicks are the central system based on a lot of stupid decisions.  All of them want the same thing, my boss from work, my male friend who pretends to be my friend, the men in my Facebook inbox, even my middle-aged driving instructor. How can a species be void of any sort of sense because of a dick hanging between their legs? Even the most respectable of them in high important ranks swelters at the slightest whiff of pussy. It is ridiculous to say the very least how the power of the pussy is capitalism’s greatest tool. 

I enjoyed the thrill of being chased by men, toying with their feelings, sometimes giving a hard pound to the ones that were worthy of me, and just catching a much-needed orgasm to satiate my demanding urges. Nothing meaningful, just a bunch of dogs eating from my hands. Finally, I was in my final form, I understood the game and became the master of it. I had everything that I wanted except genuine human connection. That was the weakness that landed me into this mess of a marriage. He showed up unexpectedly and one thing that got my attention. He did not pant like a dog for sex. Instead he told me something profound. He wanted me and not my body. Wait, what? It felt like pussy con artistry at its finest but I thought let me give it a go and see if this nigga knew who he was dealing with.

It’s the way his eyes lit up when he saw me, held my hand everywhere we went, and kissed me goodbye without going further than first base. I admit a girl was befuddled. He would not let me touch a door, flowers were the order of the day 3 times a week, and 6 months in, he did not pressure me for sex. By the time we had the talk about sex he was concerned if I was absolutely ready to go to the next stage. I have been ready, we had been making out like high school kids for six months it was time to feel this preserved dick. I even dropped my other shenanigans, a one-man woman smitten for days. The first time we fucked I was lost for words. This is what I imagined sex to be when I lost my virginity. He paid attention to my body and how it responded to different stimuli. He understood that pussy and gave it life. I remember lying in his king-sized bed shuddering with aftermath spasms. My thighs were shaking, my cum made a small puddle on the bed and at that moment, I knew I was fucked.

Of course, I married him.  Our wedding was an extravagant, lavish affair and the most shocking outcome considering I was that girl that would amount to nothing. That girl will die from an aggressive and advanced STD. I can’t get over how the sex was amazing. Multiple orgasms, both vaginal and clitoral, He was a pussy whisperer. I fell pregnant almost immediately with guess what? Fucking triplets. What are the odds? Triplets? It was such a me thing to happen, I always came at the top as a rarity on all occasions including pregnancy. He was excited, I was not. I looked like a cow with a wig and felt like the entire Hindenburg was in my uterus. I had no single maternal bone in me and felt disassociated with the pregnancy. At 32 weeks they were ready to be extracted. 4 hours under, I saw the little mice for the first time. I swear they looked like hairless pink tiny mice. I wanted to feel a connection with my girls but dang, nothing. I stayed at the hospital for a whole month as my babies needed special attention and were nursed by professionals until they were fit enough to be discharged.

He was the happiest man under the sun. He literally stayed in the nursery and participated in the feeding scheme while I spent most of the day sleeping in the postpartum ward. I was happy that he was hands-on so that gave me time to tend to myself and well, not be a mother. Having kids was a nightmare, all they did was poop and scream. We finally went home and my mother came as often as possible to help. She even hired two maids to assist. It made my life easier and I could focus on snapping back and being the irresistible woman I was before three human beings clawed out of my uterus.

Something happened when the babies came, he just…forgot about me. He spent every waking minute with the girls, it was almost as if he married me to procreate. I was an outsider in my own family as he and my daughters bonded. At first, I didn’t mind, it gave me ample time to be myself and less of a mother. I began to feel lonely in a house full of people. My daughters were 5 years old and I barely knew them. This man was a wholesome parent that my presence was almost irrelevant. The past five years were a blur. I spent most of it in the gym and at work. I used work as an excuse not to be a mother. My husband raised the kids with numerous different maids. It was one evening when I sat on my swing couch that the maid sashayed in the living room with a tray of food and with a shady coy demeanor, she presented a tray of food to my husband while completely ignoring me.  I had become a shadow in my own house and so detached that a thick veil covered my eyes from the blatant reality that lay in front of me. My presence was clearly meaningless. I looked at my daughters, happy chubby girls who were accustomed to this fragmented family dynamic. I woke up from a self-absorbed reverie. I became the woman that I resented my entire life. My mother. It was the awakening of maternal predisposition.

I slept next to my husband and whispered to him, “I know you are sleeping with the maid you bastard.” Nothing in the world prepared me for his response “So, what? She is practically the mother of the triplets while you out there doing God-knows-what.”  Knocked the wind out of my lungs while I slept there as the icy words hung in the air. I was shocked into silence.

The following morning, I quit my job and fired the maid. Game on motherfucker. I looked at my children and felt so angry at myself for not being the mother they needed. I threw myself into motherhood and began the journey to integrate these little human beings into my life. I should have breastfed, we could have bonded maybe. Natalia, Natasha, and Natty became the core of my being. I had no idea that I started a war by being a great and present mother to my own children. The deranged man that I married took offense and militarized his demons to fight me.

It is the strangest thing under the sun. He began to manipulate the girls into believing that I was an enemy and he was their savior. At first, it was subtle that I thought maybe I was imagining it then it became clear as day. He would walk in during dinner with a tub of ice cream and kids being kids jump for the ice cream and completely forget their dinner. The minute I try to intervene and suggest they finish their food first then have ice cream. He would go in for the kill. Mummy sucks and of course, he would win them over just like every other day, with sweets, money, and overall bad parenting.  Watching movies till midnight during the school week, allows them to do whatever they want without thinking of the negative effects and repercussions.

I picked up the pieces, sick kids from sugar piggishness, sprained limbs from jumping from kitchen counters, parents’ meetings at school for misbehaving and the list just fucking goes on. He was literally raising slobs and brats just to make me suffer? Using the kids to settle some sort of personal score. I don’t remember how we came to this. How I became his nemesis and this ungratified hunger to put me down. There was a stranger in my house. This was not the charming, loving, and thoughtful man that I married. This was a hellspawn straight from Satan’s loins. Look, I have been fighting motherfuckers like these all my life, and here I was faced with the worst of them. I left, went home to my mother’s house, and took my girls with me.

He came home from work to an empty house. I took everything and left him a blanket and a pillow. I had to fight for my children, this could not continue, it was damaging the kids. He begged me to come back home, even became the man that I had long forgotten just to lure me back. He was relentless, sent flowers daily, wrote an apology on the classified section of the national newspaper, and went as far as running a 10km apology marathon on a Facebook live stream. These were clear signs of mental imbalance but I didn’t bite on that. I am a child who was never loved. It worked like a charm and under several conditions imposed on him, 3 months later we were back home to him. I made it clear that the children were not pawns and he was destroying them. His apology was a yawn fest monologue of childhood trauma that turned into him a narcissistic prick. I am a stupid woman, worse a thoughtless mother. In what world did I think we would return to normalcy and be a happy family?

Oh, he was a good man while it lasted. He was very performative, I forgot this is the man who slept with the maids and the man who dragged the children in his fucked-up revenge Gaza strip because I put a curb to hired house help. Wait, in simpler terms, he threw his kids under the bus in a sheer adult male tantrum in protest of being denied extra free-range pussy in his marital home? Mind-blowing.

The daily roses became a bi-weekly thing then just dwindled to no roses at all. As a father, he did make great strides to be better but as a husband, it was a shit show. Seeing that his children were not riders on a checkered cardboard box he decided to go for the queen herself. These red flags come to you like a bull in an arcadia. Flapping right before you, teasing and mocking you but love is the weakest link. It makes one forgo common sense, critical thinking, and logic.  Some died for love, some killed for love… a sacrifice not worth the fickle human emotion of validation. Love has brought more evil than good. Pain, humiliation, depression, death, war, jealousy because human beings are not built to carry such a powerful emotion and honor it in its purity. A lie, it is all a lie. Love is for the gods, the deity, who can comprehend its entirety and sacredness. Human beings are shit handlers. We always hurt the people that we love, it is the blueprint and supposedly human. Well, my husband humanized the shit out of love.

He came home with a shirt stained with lipstick and a dick caked with dry cum. Don’t ask me how I found out about the flaky cum on his penis.  I knew the prick was unfaithful but to see factual evidence is devastating. I lost my shit and confronted him while grabbing his dick in my fist. That is the day he hit me for the first time. The slap landed on my face and I reeled in shimmery darkness. Literally saw stars. It is funny how the emotional scarring is bigger than the physical. It is a new kind of pain, a cocktail of betrayal, disbelief, heartbreak, and disappointment. All these emotions mashed into a single huge glob of pain at the base of your throat can choke and kill you. That is how I felt, I choked on this pain unable to fathom that a man can be this cruel. I froze, palm on my cheek, tears gushing out, and unable to utter a single word. I never thought this might happen to me but here I stood as a victim of domestic violence. He walked away and slept in the guest bedroom. I cried the whole night, replaying the whole scenario in my head a thousand times until the pain seared into my soul.

I was ready to leave, never to come back, but I woke up that morning to a room filled with flowers and foil balloons that read, ‘I AM SORRY’.  He waltzed in with a tray of breakfast and looked at me with teary eyes. The motherfucker knelt down and started sobbing. I have never been so confused. The manipulation game was a mastered art and I was a novice.  He cried, I cried, we cried and I really thought we shared a moment. You guessed it, I forgave him and that’s how the cycle of abuse came into full swing .3 days later, I tested positive to a pregnancy home test kit. The girls were eight years old and we had two more coming, yes. Twins. His bionic genes were out of control because how can two pregnancies bring 5 kids?

I was once a no-nonsense, trash-talking hardcore but, in this marriage, I became a timid docile woman. The fire that burned inside of me diminished as the abuse became a re-occurring thing. The second time, he pushed me into the wall but he immediately picked me up and apologized. The third time he choked me after insistently asking, why he came home well after midnight. He immediately apologized. I was pregnant. I fucking stayed with this monster and kept a happy face for the kids but I was a shell of my former self. He was on a whoredom streak because not long after these escapades I found a used condom in his car. I threw it in his face and it landed splat on his mouth. He lost it and like a crazed maniac, he tackled me to the gravel before landing a hard fist on my jaw and another one on my mouth. I clawed at his face, and tried to fight back but I was a defenseless 6-month pregnant woman. His eyes had a wild look as if he was possessed. I kept screaming, I AM PREGNANT! STOP IT! The last thing I remember is my head banging on the gravel and I was lights out.

I regained consciousness in a hospital bed, surrounded by flowers and you guessed it, the trademark foil balloons. I went along with the story that he told the police. I was attacked by men who tried to rob me but my husband came to the rescue. Yes, I went with it. I lost the twins that night, fell into premature labor, and miscarried. It was the acts of remorse and kindness after being abused that fogged any rational thinking. I still loved this monster because I believed he was a good man with anger issues. Thought we could work through these demons that he was battling. Believed in the remorseful man that was full of apologies and shame. Separated his violence from his character. I had every reason to stay but leave.

The infidelity took a worse turn. He didn’t care about getting caught, in fact, he had a full-fledged affair with his secretary that was very much public. That is when the no apology beatings came into form. He beat me for the silliest of things, accused me of misplacing things, for waking up after him, the man basically morphed into Satan himself and his wife a punching bag. I would like to think that I am a very intelligent woman and understood that I needed to get out, but abuse, chips away a part of you. Reason and logic become far-fetched and you become imprisoned in mental anguish. A debate resonates in the mind, should I go? Should I stay?

It’s easier to judge from outside of the fence but it is a whole different ball game for victims. Staying with a cold unemotional demon you latch onto any display of emotion and this is when he is violent, it qualifies as attention. You are conditioned to the violence and adapt to it. It becomes a normal part of life. It became a normal part of my life. A cup thrown in my direction was a mild day for a victim of domestic violence. At the back of my mind, I knew I had to leave, but that small voice was muffled by the fear and crazy glint of hope that still flickered in this madness. The affair would end, and he will come to his senses. I was mistaken because he came home and asked me to go home to his mother’s house so Laura could move in. That night something snapped, I would like to call it the final straw. A turning point, a moment of realization, a rebirth, we could go on with this but you catch my drift? I stood squarely before him and told him to fuck off. He was taken aback by the new surge of defiance.

He took three menacing steps toward me and I glared at him without flinching. He was hesitant. “If you hit me. Tonight is the day you die.” I heard the steely voice escape from my lips. Even, I couldn’t believe the words that came out of my mouth. The backhand cut through the air and landed neatly on my eye. I staggered into the floor lamp landing on the wall, without thinking I swung the floor lamp with all my might and whacked him on the head. He toppled onto the ground. I struck his head repeatedly while screaming hysterically, blinded by tears, the pool of blood that seeped from under his head yanked me back to reality. Standing over his lifeless body, I stared in horror at his deformed skull. I killed him.

This is how I started writing this, the police are on their way. The girls are at my mom’s for the weekend. I don’t know but I am not sad, nor with remorse. I am sitting here with my husband’s corpse a few feet away from me and I feel nothing. Whatever the future holds, here is to new beginnings.

2 Replies to “The Devil in Blue Jeans”

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