THE NARCISSIST'S WIFE

Chapter Nine : Rope of Qadr

Zahra could never understand the rationale behind his beating her. The excuses he used were nothing her little brain could comprehend. A good example was when he beat her because she mistakenly cut her finger. And there was the time he beat her because he forgot that she told him that the bread had finished. Was that supposed to be her fault or his?

Worst was how he would call her after the assault and blame her for his weakness. He would tell her that was her fault that he beat her because she always made him angry.

"Do you think I have fun hitting you? Do you?" Zahra would nod her head and begin to cry. "It is all your fault, your mistake." He would say, "You are responsible for both your tears and laughter in this house. I have already told you that, right?"

He would stare at her until she felt the earth should swallow her, then he would instruct her to go and wash her face.

She was later to understand that this theory was another wrong one he implanted in her mind, one that made her blame herself for his wrongs. She was made to take responsibility for his actions, instead of him. It was about him and the beast he was. She had nothing to do with it.

She could still remember the day it had all started. It was a day she couldn't forget in a hurry. It was the first day he laid his hands on her, and never did it stop afterwards.

That faithful day, he had forgotten that she told him his favourite bread was almost finished. She had remembered telling him prior to the day he discovered, as she had served him the last portion with the potato and plantain chips he ate for breakfast. He had not only nodded but had answered her with a smile.

Being someone with clear mind and a good memory, she could remember him on his praying mat reciting the Quran when she entered his room to see if he had woken up. And when she brought him his breakfast and insisted that he ate before he exercised, he had politely declined.

It was, however, quite shocking how he denied it all. He got so mad at her that her effort to convince him only made him angrier. He was consumed with pure fury. He believed she was lying to him. He struck her hard on her cheek.
The sound and force of his vengeful fist against the soft flesh of her cheek desiccated the calmness and graciousness of the morning.

Without warning, a second followed, then a third. Then he began kicking her on her belly. She fell to her knees and whimpered, exposing her head to his torture. Everything went numb. Everything stopped.

He kept screaming at her, calling her a liar and, to crown the hurt, he insulted her parents.

She only wished at that moment that he had been told, while seeking her hand, that she had never been beaten up; there had hardly ever been a reason to. It was too late to tell him that now...

***

As always, she waited at the door to open it for him, but when she heard the security guard's voice dived quickly and hid behind the curtains that separated their living room from the inner part of the house.

She would soon learn that whenever he brought someone with him to the door, it was a sign that he didn't want her at the door when he was home.

When he locked the door behind him and the security man's footsteps faded away, he walked to the curtains, neither speaking to her nor responding to her greetings. He refused to collect the glass of water she handed to him. He didn't acknowledge her presence. He walked into his room and closed the door quietly behind him.

She stood for a few seconds by his door, not sure of what to do before she finally salamed pushed the door open.

Inside the room, Sharif was taking off his suit already, an act that Zahra had always assisted him with.

"What do you want?" He turned towards her, but she couldn't look up, the hoarseness in his voice was scary enough.

"I'm sorry... Please forgive me."

"Get out of my room," he said with his index finger pointing to the door. "You have your own room so don't bother me." He was untying his necktie now.

"I can't..." She began sobbing and trembling, the water started pouring from the glass.

"You can't what? Nonsense. I hate nonsense..."
He looked from her to the glass of water before he finally began hanging his suit in his closet.

"Please don't wet my carpet. Leave immediately." He was still calm, a dangerous kind of calmness.

"I'm sorry."

"Zahra, may I remind you that you were taken to your room after our Nikkah and not mine, so there you go." He motioned towards the door but when she didn't make a move, he grabbed her by the arm and calmly pulled her from where she stood to the threshold and then out of his room. She was trembling. She was sure he could feel it from his grip.

"And I hate the sound of cries especially from a woman. I have told you this and what I hate more than that is having to repeat myself. Are we clear?"

She nodded.

"There you go. I'm tired, please don't pour water on your way." He slammed his door closed as the keys rattled.

Zahra would always remember the conviction, the persistence in his voice about her not informing him of the finished bread so that over the coming days, she would begin doubting herself and then become convinced that she was wrong, perhaps the whole situation was a dream.

She went to her room, lay on the bed and yet couldn't get a whiff of sleep until after Sharif left for work the next morning, neither answering her greetings nor taking his breakfast.

She heard him make different calls from his room overnight. He spoke loudly and mostly laughing until it was mid-night as though he was mocking at her.

She contemplated calling her mother or sisters or Pendo Dija but she didn't because Sharif had once told her that their marriage would be destroyed if she ever told anybody what went on in their home. She would learn again, much later in her marriage, that it was another of his wrong theories.

She learnt four things from that day: first, she should always concede to what his position was. Second, Sharif could actually beat her to pulp if he so desired. Third, when he beat her, he would stay mad for a week or more, not answering her greetings, talking to her, touching her, or eating her food. Finally, it was an offence not to meet her being wretched, waiting, hoping and crying for his forgiveness.

Of all the things he did to her, nothing was more painful than his act of silence, of not speaking to her and ignoring her existence.

Usually, after one week, he would call her to the sitting room, ask her to kneel down, hold her by the chin and tell her that she made him beat her. She should avoid making him upset. Her peace and pains were completely up to her.

When she finally resumed her wifely duties of cooking for him, choosing the dresses for him and helping him dress up, she would realize she had missed doing these so much. It was an honor to serve him like that even though she wasn't sure whether it was the reward attached to these acts or her husband's appreciation she craved for.

Most times she pondered how abnormal it was that someone who loved her so much that he couldn't bear the thought of her cutting her hand with a kitchen knife and would stop her from ever slicing onions or cooking stew, so that the pebbles didn't get her burnt, would then raise his hands violently at her, kick her, beat her to pulp with his belt and, most painfully, emotionally abuse her.

There was no logic to it, for the sincerity of his love when he showed it could be seen and felt. Was it then a mental case or just a rope of qadr around her neck?

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