Slave Monologue

My whimpering children covered behind me as their father hollered, "You call this dinner?" Grabbing the pot of homemade spaghetti sauce that I'd carefully slaved over all day, he whacked it on the hot plate, sending a stream of sauce skywards that splattered the ceiling. Smashing his fist through the wall, he left the house, slamming the door behind him.

During our year of courtship, he never once showed this dark side. Yet once we married, his temper reared its ugly head.

The first time he grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me like a salt shaker I warned him that if he ever touched me again, I'd leave him for good. I should have gone, right away, but the words, "for better, for worse" drifted from his mouth. Marriage took effort and we were young. Things would work out. All blame fell on me; I had made him angry. He promised that he'd never physically hurt me again and he didn't until many years later. However, the emotional, verbal abuse
If we attended a party, he danced with other women, but if I danced and enjoyed myself, it was time to leave.

My husband loathed my friends which meant they rarely stopped by.

He selfishly spent his money on himself, while the children and I went without.

He insisted that I keep an immaculate house, not an easy feat with little toddlers around. A writing pen discovered out of place would launch into a dangerous missile and any toys on the floor got smashed flat as a pancake. Our home constantly needed repairs from the fists that slammed into the walls. I finally lost track of the many items he broke during those angry outbreaks.

His road rage either got us into a fight or almost killed us.

Each time I worked up the nerve to escape, he begged me to stay, swearing he would change. And he always put on a grand performance for a short while before reverting back to his old