Alpha’s inevitable fate to Victoria [Book 1 thru 3 of Victory Trilogy]

"I am so tired, Francisco." I sigh at my husband, who is currently playing online with his friends after sleeping for approximately four hours. “Busy.” He shouts at me from his seat. After finishing cleaning the dishes from our dinner, I thought it would be a good idea to text my mom to see if everything was okay, but I was caught off guard when I heard my husband yell at me. "Are you busy or still mooing around?" I quickly decided to send them a simple text message saying, "I love you," and then looked at my husband. He motions for me to take a seat, which I disagree with, and he instead begins to argue with me about how I always ask him to do things while he is busy playing with his friends. Until I showed him that I was texting my mother, to which he groaned in irritation. It is been two years since I spoke with my mother; the last time was when my husband and I renewed our vows after a year of marriage, and she organized the entire wedding for us; I had less than a day in a cheap hotel for a honeymoon because my husband refused to give me anything better. In his own words, he did not want others to know about his bad habits because he was still working on improving for us. Done and tired, I try to end this fight when he finally snaps at me and says, "I am being deployed to Kuwait for 6 months." My eyes meet his in shock. We married two years ago, just after he graduated from basic military school. My mother's friend, who assisted me in organizing the wedding, bet my mother on it. My marriage would last no more than six months at most. Laying on my arms on the kitchen counter, I began to reflect on how, after only 25 days of marriage, he would only contact me to tell me how much he hated his choices, how much he hated things, why I hated him, why I was only using his money, and how much it made him feel suffocated to be present. If he had not vented and accused me, he would not have called me or made me feel the way he makes his grandmother feel. She raised him from the time he was a baby. Every day, I am convinced that his only true love for her and me is because she knew how to make him feel proud, joyful, and accomplished in life, despite his abusive behavior. She never stopped his way of life, and now I am stuck dealing with the consequences. At that time. He did not call me for a week, but that day, a close friend of mine, or so I thought, was doing more than just being a friend. Before we became friends, we assumed we were related. We learned that he might be a relative of mine. He turned out not to be a relative; we only share my mother's last name, but we are not related by blood or marriage. While my husband was abusing me with his phone calls, my friend Matt always treated me with kindness; he was different when he was with me, and honestly, after only having my husband be so evil, I gave in to my friend one night; it was not anything else, because Matt simply disappeared after that night. I told my husband that, as my father had always taught me, I should be honest with him even if I made mistakes. My husband said he forgives me, but whenever I am near anyone else, he brings it up or takes his anger out on me again, hitting me and saying I deserve it for what I did. The memories surfaced, and I did not want to recall them. Shaking my head from the memories, I look at him through teary eyes. "I am sorry, I do not know what to say except that we are going to make this process as simple and safe as possible." I move to hug him, but he sits down to continue playing video games. Seeing he does not want any type of affection, I take this moment to go to the bathroom to shower and change before going to bed; tomorrow I have to work, so I get my water gallon from the fridge to drink with some headache pain relievers. I did not notice any difference until I drank my water, which always made me dizzy but was better than nothing. After my one-night stand, I had a mosquito bite me, which transmitted dengue and chikungunya for years. I was diagnosed with blood cloths in my brain when I was a child, and after my first period, many more began to appear in my uterus. My husband refused to take me to therapy for recovery following my strokes, despite promising my family that he would care for me the same week I was hospitalized. They informed him that in addition to therapy, I would need to take medication to help me recover. In the privacy of our alone time, he told me I was not going to therapy, and then he told me I had to stop taking some medications because he did not want me to use his money, his medical plan that was for himself, important house items that needed to be cheap or things I could fix, and food. After my strokes, and after he refused to help, I saved some money from my artwork. I studied visual arts with a minor in general communication until I had my strokes, which forced me to drop out of college. That money I would use for medication to keep myself healthy, but when my husband found out, he said he did not want to be taking care of me and that I should find a way to recover without using his money. I know he started lying to our relatives about me abusing the medications, which caused many to stop buying my work, resulting in no money. I never asked for those medications back because I was afraid if I paid out of pocket, he would hit me for it. Last week, I had a seizure, and he overheard Raven and me talking on Skype. When my husband entered the room in front of the Skype call and heard him scream, saying I was having a seizure, he began smacking my face, telling me to get a grip on myself. My friend Raven refused to call me again, saying I needed help and that he was not going to get in the way because he had his own problems to deal with. Now I am mostly left on my cell phone, playing online, and trying to feel like I matter to anyone. But these headaches got worse all of a sudden, and my yearly visit to the hospital for a check-up revealed that I need stronger medications. But, once again, my husband refuses. I need a better solution, but how can I when I can not even work a part-time job? I only paint or draw because it is my job. I studied it at Sacred Heart University. I went to bed dizzy, and Bruno, my dog, was wiggling his tail inside his cage; this is the only way I can keep a pet in the apartment. After taking the painkillers and four sleeping pills, I fell asleep and awoke with strange feelings. When I open my eyes, my husband is having s*x with me, but I go back to sleep. He notices me waking up and moves above me, pushing my hands up with his belt. "Good, you are awake. Let us finish this; I have to go to work in an hour." So I did as he asked, and the pain of the raw s*x made me scream. Internally, I wished someone would get me out of here and into a better life, but no one came to my rescue, as they had many times before. When he was finished, he released my hands to put his military belt on his pants and kissed my forehead before leaving. I saw him walk out the door to his sleeping roommate. Our roommate is a friend, and his now-wife is my friend; we met through her, who is now in Sweden. They will be reunited by the end of five months, and my husband will be deployed in the following month. During that time, I went to the base behind my husband's back to request that the medical plan that I have from Tricare refer me to therapy. After some exams behind my husband's back, I was told that my health had been neglected, and they were amazed that I could even walk. I began my therapy after my husband left for his deployment, and our roommate assisted me for a few months. Before he left, I completed my five-month therapy. Without saying anything, I grab my phone and see that my mother responded with an I love you back; it was then that I realized how much I needed to hear someone say they loved me; I cried while holding my cellphone; I wanted to go home, to be with those who truly loved me; I just needed time to get there, but I was on my way home; now was my chance. The month flew by, and I finally mustered the courage to begin my therapy now that my husband has left. My left side has always been weak, and with an abusive husband, defending myself is nearly impossible. I have a tattoo of a hippy sun in chains on my right side, where I always turn to take his punches; since I have my tattoo, no one thinks it is a bruise from my husband hitting me. He would always try to hit me on my right side, which is my strongest side, until he felt I had learned my lesson; at the very least, I can remember that there is always hope for the future. Time passed, and I received a call from my therapist stating that they needed my husband's consent; my color left me, and I did not say anything but pressed the red button. An hour later, my husband received the same call, which I saw from my desk because he shot daggers at me. I was afraid he would hit me, but when he asked out loud, our roommate supported the idea of me going to therapy. My husband did not sleep with me, he stayed in the live seat, saying a b***h does not deserve his attention. I felt like a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders, while I started my physical therapy last month, I was progressing marvelously, everyone at the center was kind to me, and they even told my husband I was a true warrior for taking on this type of work, but he just smiled and nodded, making me feel like a joke. It was now a month into my therapy, and this month, before my husband leaves, would be my second of six months; however, it turned out that I needed six months instead just to be safe with my process, and I had no complaints. I can do it easily with the help of our roommate. I am hoping that things will improve, if not significantly. Days passed, but nothing happened. The day before we leave, he gives me the worst excuse to go out drinking with his shop. My anger rises, and all I can do is close the door to our room to stay quiet and distracted when my husband enters with his uniform and locks the door behind him. I did not notice it in time, but he smelled of alcohol. What he does next is worse than any beating he is ever given me. He tied my hands up with his belt and placed one hand on my mouth while holding the belt, which he had done before, but this time he hit my stomach. With his other hand, he removes our pants and proceeds to do whatever he wants. When he finishes, I look out the window behind me. When he opens the door to close it, I hear our roommate say, "Are you two okay?" I overheard yelling. "What is her problem now?" I close my eyes, allowing tears to fall down my cheeks. Thinking this is the worst, my husband responds, "She is always an issue; I can not deal with her shit." He closes the door. I just changed out of these clothes, threw them away, took my sleeping pills, but this time I took the entire container of twelve pills, and went to the floor because I did not want to be there. When I woke up two days later, I turned because I felt like I was in the bed, and when I did, I saw my husband caressing me, being gentle with me, and I had no idea how to react. I felt empty and as if I needed to pee; when I tried to get up, it hurt so much. My husband attempted to assist me, but as soon as I bent, I felt myself pushing something. When I was done with the minor pain, I noticed I was bleeding from below. I was only wearing some pajamas, I started to take them off only to see that I just had a miscarriage. My husband accepted everything and said he would be back. He left and locked the door, leaving me to get out of bed to be cleaned. It hurt so much that I could not do everything at once. When I finally finished, I returned to change the bedding and get cleaned up. When my husband returned to the room, he felt sorry for me and stayed with me for one day to help me recover, which made me very happy to know he cared about me. Even if it was just for a day, he told me we needed to go to the hospital, and I smiled kindly and agreed. "Why are you in tears?" He asks, and I decide to tell the truth, tears in my eyes. "Did we lose our baby?" My declaration came across more as a question, and his tone and facial expression changed. We went to the hospital that night to find out the answer to my question. I was asked to lie on their bed to be examined, and they asked why I had so many bruises. With a laugh, I joked that I am clumsy and always hit myself against the door, wall, and floor. It was all just an accident. The doctor asked my husband to leave, which made me nervous; when he got outside, he nodded at me, and I mustered the courage to get out of here quickly; he was finally being nice to me; he wanted me to be happy, but not like this. "Is your husband beating you?" I shook my head and looked at her, perplexed; she took the clipboard and wrote something. "I need you to tell me about how you lost your baby." I had to hold back my tears because she asked so blandly that I feared answering her. Looking down at my hands, I asked her in response, "Your question is not nice; please let my husband answer; it is painful." She stood up to open the door, but then stopped. "Why do you respond in such short sentences? Are you sure he is not abusing you? I did not respond; why would I? Anything I say will be used against me, and my husband may even hate me now. When she let my husband in, he went to me and looked me up and down. The doctor asked him what happened, and I tuned out everything they were saying because I just wanted to go back to that happy moment. My husband gradually returned to his former self in the days that followed, with the exception that he did not hit or fight me, which was nice. The day he left, I had recently started working at a gas station and made friends with a cool girl from the north of the states. As an islander, it is still amazing how different things are here versus back home. Allowing myself to be with my husband before he leaves, he chooses to tell me something else. He puts his hands on my shoulders and smiles. "I am going to the arcade with Jonny, and we will be back in time to get to the airport, okay?" He kisses my mouth and takes his belongings without listening to my response. I have been texting my mother more and more since my husband left for work; the fight with my husband flared up again, and I simply stopped wanting to fix anything he started a fight about. Olivia, my coworker and friend, made me feel like there was still hope for happiness, but I was not expecting to hear someone else start a conversation while we were shopping at Walmart.