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Description
It was that day that he promised me forever. That he would never leave me, I would always be his love. His one and only love. Everything would be fine now that I was his, happiness was in reach. His cool fingers brushed against my cheeks, drying my tears, his grey eyes looking though my plain brown ones like windows. His pink lips showing through the night, even in the dim moonlight, silently speaking to me.

Promises have a funny way of turning out to be lies.
:.:
I twisted the ring on my finger, the mistake that bound me to him. He stumbled through the doorway into our ratty apartment. A bruise on my shoulder from a shove, a scratch on my face from a misplaced glass, that was all I remembered before I blacked out, waking up in an even worse condition.

He also promised me he’d stopped drinking.
:.:
I never knew where our money went. He brought home a paycheck every three months or so, but it was usually already half spent.

“How are we going to live on this?” I would ask.

He would mimic my words, and then tell me I always had to be worrying about something, that some things never change.

But he was wrong then, too. I only worried when I was with him.
:.:
We had one son, if you could call it that. It was near the beginning of our marriage, when we were still happy. Everyday he would come home from work, humming some charming tune, and pat my stomach, asking me how my day had been, how the baby was, etc.

I would give him a goofy grin and talk about all the weird cravings I had for ketchup and watermelon, and his eyes would sparkle as he laughed with me. Oh how his eyes sparkled.

But four weeks before our baby was due I went into labor, giving birth to a small premature mess. Our son didn’t last through the night. I cried long after he was dead, for the son I would never have, the relationship I would never have, how my life would never be the same, but mostly for the sparkling grey eyes our baby had.

Oh, how I miss those eyes.
:.:
Sometimes I wondered if he kept me around because he still loved me.

Sometimes I thought he kept me around to do house work.

Other times I thought it was because he wanted someone to share his pain with, so we could live in misery together.

I should have known he kept me around just because he could.
:.:
I tried to leave once, packed my bags, wrote a note to him, left my ring on the counter. I almost made it, leaving hours before his usual time of coming home from the bar, but when I opened our front door, he was standing there.

Maybe he had come home for lunch, maybe he had come to check up on me, or maybe he didn’t even go to work that day. Either way, it didn’t matter to me. The next morning a couple of my ribs were broken and the doors in the house were locked from the outside.

I had been so close.
:.:
Once before he left for his job I got angry and asked him if he hated me, why he abused me, why we couldn’t live in peace. I didn’t really expect an answer.

He looked at me with almost black eyes, his flawless face expressionless, his once-pink lips now almost white, matching the color of his skin. His beautiful skin.

“You killed my son.”

He left then, words hanging in the air and not even a backward glance at my pale, tearstained face.

Maybe that was the one time he told me the truth.

Description
It was that day that he promised me forever. That he would never leave me, I would always be his love. His one and only love. Everything would be fine now that I was his, happiness was in reach. His cool fingers brushed against my cheeks, drying my tears, his grey eyes looking though my plain brown ones like windows. His pink lips showing through the night, even in the dim moonlight, silently speaking to me.

Promises have a funny way of turning out to be lies.
:.:
I twisted the ring on my finger, the mistake that bound me to him. He stumbled through the doorway into our ratty apartment. A bruise on my shoulder from a shove, a scratch on my face from a misplaced glass, that was all I remembered before I blacked out, waking up in an even worse condition.

He also promised me he’d stopped drinking.
:.:
I never knew where our money went. He brought home a paycheck every three months or so, but it was usually already half spent.

“How are we going to live on this?” I would ask.

He would mimic my words, and then tell me I always had to be worrying about something, that some things never change.

But he was wrong then, too. I only worried when I was with him.
:.:
We had one son, if you could call it that. It was near the beginning of our marriage, when we were still happy. Everyday he would come home from work, humming some charming tune, and pat my stomach, asking me how my day had been, how the baby was, etc.

I would give him a goofy grin and talk about all the weird cravings I had for ketchup and watermelon, and his eyes would sparkle as he laughed with me. Oh how his eyes sparkled.

But four weeks before our baby was due I went into labor, giving birth to a small premature mess. Our son didn’t last through the night. I cried long after he was dead, for the son I would never have, the relationship I would never have, how my life would never be the same, but mostly for the sparkling grey eyes our baby had.

Oh, how I miss those eyes.
:.:
Sometimes I wondered if he kept me around because he still loved me.

Sometimes I thought he kept me around to do house work.

Other times I thought it was because he wanted someone to share his pain with, so we could live in misery together.

I should have known he kept me around just because he could.
:.:
I tried to leave once, packed my bags, wrote a note to him, left my ring on the counter. I almost made it, leaving hours before his usual time of coming home from the bar, but when I opened our front door, he was standing there.

Maybe he had come home for lunch, maybe he had come to check up on me, or maybe he didn’t even go to work that day. Either way, it didn’t matter to me. The next morning a couple of my ribs were broken and the doors in the house were locked from the outside.

I had been so close.
:.:
Once before he left for his job I got angry and asked him if he hated me, why he abused me, why we couldn’t live in peace. I didn’t really expect an answer.

He looked at me with almost black eyes, his flawless face expressionless, his once-pink lips now almost white, matching the color of his skin. His beautiful skin.

“You killed my son.”

He left then, words hanging in the air and not even a backward glance at my pale, tearstained face.

Maybe that was the one time he told me the truth.