Chapter 7
I turned away from him, lowering my head to shut the door, but he was quick to wedge himself in. Before I could react, he pushed me against the wall and wrapped his arms around me, his voice low. “Sylvia, please give me another chance.”
The warmth that once comforted me now made my skin crawl. I pushed against him, anger bubbling up. “Don’t touch me! I’m calling the cops!”
He laughed lightly, completely unfazed. “We’re married. You can’t just call the police.”
Ignoring my protests, his hand brushed my cheek gently. “Sylvia, I know you hate me for what happened to the baby, but it’s okay. We can try for another child and start fresh.”
I frowned in disgust. “Are you out of your mind? Don’t even think about it; the doctor said I can’t get pregnant again!”
He wouldn’t accept that. “The last time you miscarried, the doctor said it would be tough to conceive again, but you still managed to get pregnant, didn’t you?”
I couldn’t believe he had the nerve to bring that up. In our first year of marriage, Brandon had gotten into a fight with his half–brother, who, in a fit of rage, drove straight at him. I pushed him out of the way just in time, and I ended up taking the hit, bleeding everywhere.
It was only at the hospital that I discovered I was already four weeks pregnant. That experience left me shaken; I had to hold his hand whenever we crossed the street after
that.
“I’m really curious, that night you crashed into me to defend Jenna, what were you feeling?”
He was at a loss for words, but I pressed on. “You can’t answer, so I’ll say it for you. You knew what I was scared of, and that’s why you used a car accident to scare me, right?”
His eyes filled with deep pain. “Stop it. I know I messed up, but I don’t want to lose you. Our feelings run too deep to just throw away!”
He mumbled to himself as if he had made a resolution, staring deeply into my eyes. “Sylvia, I know you have a soft heart. You hate me now, but once we have a child, you’ll forgive me.”
As he spoke, he reached for the buttons on my shirt. I instinctively pushed him away. “I told you not to touch me. I feel dirty!”
He froze, his eyes darkening with rage. “What did you just say?”
He couldn’t believe I’d called him dirty. He had once told me how his mom left when he was young, and his stepmother treated him cruelly. Desperate to win her approval, he had once brought home snacks from school to share with his brother. But when his stepmother saw, she slapped his hand and stomped the snacks onto the ground, saying, “Don’t give my son anything touched by those filthy hands!”
That was his trauma.
We had once been so close, sharing secrets and knowing each other’s vulnerabilities. He never imagined that one day I would use his past as a weapon to hurt him.
20:25 Sun, 13 Apr D G
He was crushed by my words, but I felt no pity. Instead, I slowly repeated. “I said you’re
dirty.”
He trembled slightly, torn between anger and pain, then suddenly raised his hand. I didn’t
flinch.
The sharp crack of his slap echoed in the room. He stepped back instinctively, disbelief o his face as he stared at his own hand, regret washing over him. “L
I said coldly, “Just go. If you don’t leave, I’ll call the cops.”
He opened his mouth to argue but couldn’t find the words. With his shoulders slumped, he walked away, defeated.
