He didn't like me, not really. He married me on the premises I was dumb and pretty, and he got the opposite, round like a pebble but witty.
He didn't like me writing, nor talking. Sometimes I think he didn't even fancy me breathing. The sound of my thoughts bothered him as he couldn't control them, but damn him if he didn't try.
On my side I tried to please him, making myself little and shadowy, trying not to make much noise, avoiding crying or laughing just in case he found it vulgar. Living up to his expectations was draining. His expectations changed on a daily basis, so he was never contented, and I gradually I became less chic but shabbier.
At first I thought it was me, but it turned out it was him... the womanizer, the White-collar psychokiller, spinning like a buzzing bee around my head. Ignoring me a minute to Sting me the next.
At first it started like a mind game... a practical joke, maybe a cluedo. Mr. X murdered in the kitchen with a hammer by the janitor. Mr. X killed by a nun in the patio with the Holy Bible.
One day he left me alone and pregnant, he had run away with his life coach (how cliché), and although I was scared, I realized I could breath as loud as I wanted, and cry has hard as I pleased. It was then when the fantasies about Mr. X's perfect murder disappeared, at least for the time being.
