The Seven Husbands of Taylor Swift

11

TAYLOR SWIFT
Five months had passed in a blur of forced optimism and silent desperation. Every morning, I'd wake to the weight of another negative pregnancy test, a small victory that was quickly overshadowed by the growing storm of Jake's frustration. His physical abuse had evolved, becoming more calculated. Gone were the gut-wrenching blows to my stomach; in their place were precise punches to my face, expertly aimed to leave minimal visible damage.

My career, once a source of joy and independence, was withering under Jake's iron fist. Red, my fourth album, had been a commercial disappointment, a stark contrast to the soaring success of my previous work. Jake blamed my waning popularity on my inability to produce a child, a twisted logic that further eroded my self-esteem.

"You had no idea what he was doing to you?" Alice asks, her voice filled with disbelief and concern.

"I didn't see it at first. It was gradual. There was the emotional abuse, the isolation, and then the physical violence. I knew something was wrong, but I convinced myself it was my fault. I thought I loved him, that I could fix him."

"What made you leave? Did someone physically make you leave?" She asks, her voice gentle.

"No, I finally reached a breaking point. It was a long, painful process. I felt trapped, like I couldn't escape. It took me a couple of months to gather the courage to leave."

Alice looks shocked. "Months? That's awful."

"It's more common than you think. Did you know it takes the average victim of domestic abuse seven times before they're able to leave their abuser? Seven times."

We sat in the sterile, white-coated world of the fertility clinic, Jake's hand a possessive weight on my lap. His grip tightened as if he could force a baby into existence through sheer willpower. Makeup masked the fresh bruises on my face, a silent plea for normalcy.

"Did you take a test this morning?" he asked, his voice laced with impatience.

"Every day," I replied, my voice flat.

"And?" His question hung in the air, heavy with expectation.

"I would've told you if it was positive," I said, my tone dripping with sarcasm. I was tired of his constant demands, his treatment of me as if I were nothing more than a baby-making machine.

His hand tightened on my shoulder, a warning. "Don't give me that attitude," he growled.

I forced a calm exterior. "I've been feeling nauseous, and I'm late." This was unfortunately true and I was terrified. Every symptom, every ache, sent a wave of panic through me. I didn't want to be pregnant but I was stuck.

The doctor bustled into the room, her white coat a stark contrast to the dull ache in my chest. Her face was unreadable, a mask compared to the frantic worry twisting mine. I vaguely recalled the doctor being a man during our first appointment, but Jake had demanded a woman. It seemed like everything was about him now.

"We have your test results back, Mrs. Gyllenhaal," the doctor began, her voice clipped. I remember wanting to keep my last name but he insisted taking his would be better. "We'd like to speak with Taylor alone for a moment."

"No way," Jake spat, you his grip tightening around my shoulder like a vice. "We stay together. Always."

A pang of fear shot through me, but I forced a smile, pasting it on my face like a cheap mask. "Honestly, I don't mind him being here. Really, anything you have to say is fine." My voice sounded thin, even to my own ears. "I mean, I've been feeling absolutely awful lately. Constant nausea, and I'm way overdue... I think I might be pregnant, actually." I let out a nervous laugh that sounded more like a choked sob.