The Lost Letters: The Dark World of Narcissistic Abuse

Discard

On the longest day of the year, he left me while I was in the shower for the woman I later learned he had been seeing for over a year. It was my fault. Of course.

She had a boyfriend. But the phone made it easy for them to stay in touch when he wasn't in the north in the same town as she—at the same gym as she frequented.

My god how he protected his phone, he carried it with him everywhere, locked tight as a drum—I know because when he was in a hurry to get into his phone, it took him ages to get through all the passwords, thumbprints and codes. He said it was for security for his job. But he is just a consultant electrical engineer, not Jason Bourne.

I suspected it was because of me he made all this effort to lock his phone because he had something to hide. But he gave me far too much credit. I was so naïve I didn't even know what WhatsApp was, let alone how to crack a phone's security.

One fine spring morning, I go into the kitchen to make tea. He is in the dining room with his back to me, engrossed in his phone, scrolling through messages and photos. It has a green theme. There are a lot of photos, though I can't make them out. I had never seen such a platform before. I am only allowed to use text messages. I know nothing about apps or how to post pictures on my phone. I'm not allowed to lock my phone and I know he goes into it, because things would disappear. Once, the entire history of our texts vanished. I asked him if my phone would have done that. He said yes, because I used too much data. Much later, I learned the truth. He had done it. Why? Because there were horrible texts in there from him so he deleted history. He was good at that.

I didn't like what I was seeing. I didn't want to see it. I pick up the kettle and pop its lid to let him know I am there. In the dark glass reflection of the extraction fan I see him switch his screen off and hit my back with one of his withering looks. He asks if I was spying on him. I say no, I only just walked in. He asks what I had seen. I say just some green stuff, that I didn't have my glasses on so it was blurry anyway. I act as if I have zero interest in the matter. I hope I am convincing.

He says it is his work messenger. I accept his lie without question. I don't say I think it is strange there were so many photos. Why would I want to do that? Although it doesn't matter. Already I am gravitating towards his words, to the comfort of his denied reality. It is true. It is for his work. It is just his colleagues sharing photos of their weekend adventures. It's a social feed for his job. Yes. That's it. I cling to that because it feels better than facing the alternative. That he's a total liar who is sitting at the designer dining room table I paid for and hitting on another woman.

I go to the sink and turn on the water. He watches me, narrow, suspicious, like he doesn't believe me—like I am the one who is the liar and not he. I wish I hadn't come in to make tea. I offer to make him a coffee, to change the subject. But it is too late. He sets his phone down, deliberate, like he always does when he is building up to what he does best, where he convinces me I am the monster and he the victim. He might as well take off his shirt, fold it carefully and set it aside. The message is clear.

'I am coming to get you.'

No. Please no. I avert my eyes, make myself small, submissive, hoping it will pacify him. I fill the kettle, try to keep my hands from shaking.

He rises from his seat and prowls up the steps into the kitchen and positions himself over me, blocking me, cornering me, his presence dominating, threatening. I can smell the coffee on his breath. It stinks of bitterness. I am still holding the kettle. I clutch it to my chest, the water inside sloshing back and forth; put it between me and him and wedge myself into the corner of the counter, my head down.