I love you, I promise.

My husband

A good five years ago we got married. Happiest day of our lives. Childhood sweethearts! I loved him, and he loved me.

His name was Francis. Shoulder-length dirty blonde hair, blue eyes and a smile that can make anyone dizzy.

Our first evening together had me seeing stars. On ecstasy I was, without the actual drug, of course. So romantic and handsome, he was the perfect man. I had read about men like him before, I just assumed they were fictional though.

We begun dating at 16 years old. Everyone knew it would eventually happen. I just rolled my eyes at them and hid behind Francis, in a childish way whenever people would stop what they were doing, just to watch us two walk past.

Good days.

Even though he cheated, at least five to ten times a year, he would always say the right things to get me back into his arms. Or his bed, as I thought. I loved him. Still do. Damn it!

We got married at 22. I remember my best friend, Amelia's response.

"What?! But.. You're 22! Both of you!!" Amelia babbled with no breaths in between. I've known Amelia all my life. She was only looking out for me.
"Don't you fret, my American Dream," Francis purred. He took her hand and gently kisses her second knuckle. Amelia blushed and lightly pushed him away.
Francis chuckled and interweaved my hands with his own.
"We're making the right choice love, promise I won't forget about you!" I giggled and kissed my best friends cheek. She smiled and walked away with her brother, Matthew.

Everything was so perfect. Until Francis' beloved Mother passed away.

Francis' mother never liked me. I was English, she was French. It was in her blood to hate me, I didn't mind. Francis, on the other hand, adored her. He had no idea how to live without her.

Maybe that's why he did what he did.

He began to drink. Wine, mostly, at the pub, which confused me at the beginning. Why would my classy French husband go and binge on some cheap white wine at a pub? Amelia became suspicious too. After a little squabble, she followed him into the streets and into a pub. I was at home, waiting anxiously for Amelia's return. I prayed that she wouldn't be hurt or harassed, seeing as it was quite late.

Half an hour later I hear keys in the lock. I prayed that it was Amelia, which it was. I remember the sick, disappointed look in her face when she locked eyes with me.

She made us both black coffee with sugar, (weird, I know) and sat me down.
"Your husband has been going to the pub to drink his cheap wine because.. He's been picking up drunken chicks and sleeping with them.."

I smiled.
My classy, French husband that I loved with all my heart wouldn't do that to me. But my amazing best friend wouldn't lie to me either.

"He's just depressed..." I start. I don't get to finish as Amelia pounced on me, forcibly giving me a hug. I pushed her off and smiled to hide the hurt.
"Alice, bab, you can't live like this! Give it a few months and he'll begin abusing you!"

That's exactly what happened.

Exactly two months after, he began shouting at me, and even hitting me occasionally.
I didn't do anything. I couldn't tell Amelia, or she would take things way too far.

I began seeing a private therapist. I went because, I wanted someone to listen to my problems with no complaints or interruptions. Even though it was pricey, I was doing the right thing. I was going mad!