CHAPTER 10: When Love Turns Into a Battlefield
813 Words
There are moments in life when you don’t realize you’re drowning until you try to breathe. , I was already deep under the water.
After the pant incident, the fights, the jealousy, and the silent treatments, things should have ended naturally. But they didn’t. Somehow, we found ourselves crawling back into each other’s arms, each reunion weaker, more fragile, more dangerous than the last.
And he knew oh, he knew that I was becoming emotionally dependent on him.
He never stopped providing. That was the glue. The trap. The one thing he weaponized with precision. I depended on him because everything around me was collapsing: my school fees were overdue, my hostel rent was hanging over my head, my visa renewal was in danger.
I was drowning financially, emotionally, mentally and he became both my oxygen and my poison.
The Cracks That Became Craters
The fights became routine. His temper unpredictable. The accusations constant.
He demanded loyalty while giving none.
He would flare up over the smallest things, then expect me to act normal two minutes later.
He controlled when we talked, when we didn’t. He decided the mood of the day.
He pushed me away and pulled me back like a toy he kept forgetting he owned.
And then things got darker.
I started noticing late-night disappearances, sudden showering after midnight, and unexplained cash withdrawals even during his “financial crisis.”
He would tell me he was “stressed” or “needed space,” but intuition is something God gives women like a survival instinct.
My spirit kept telling me he was don’t things behind my back.
One day, during his disappearing streak, he claimed he was “going through a lot,” that life was weighing him down.
But something felt off.
My calls weren’t going through, my texts left unread.
Later, a friend of his slipped just casually mentioned that he had been seen driving around with “one girl in tight clothes,” sitting in the front seat, laughing, touching him.
And I knew.
I knew he had been with prostitutes, side girls whatever name you want to give them.
He lied and said they were “just passengers,” or “old friends,” or “someone he gave a ride.”
He always had an explanation ready.
He always had a story rehearsed.
The Game Night That Became War
One evening, we were playing a game together something we used to enjoy before everything became toxic.
But during the game, a woman messaged him.
And instead of ignoring it, he smiled at his phone.
I reminded him calmly that if it were me, he would have exploded.
He would have accused me of cheating, disloyalty, disrespect.
He would have dragged the argument for days.
But that night, he simply looked at me and said, flatly:
“Then don’t take it personal.”
It stung.
I went quiet, hurt.
And he noticed, of course. He always noticed when he no longer controlled the atmosphere.
When he asked me to get him food, I didn’t respond because I was still processing everything.
And that was enough to ignite the demon inside him.
He suddenly stood up, grabbed my phone, and smashed it on the floor.
The sound of the screen shattering was like glass breaking inside my chest.
He started shouting loud, violent, explosive.
“I’m talking to you and you’re ignoring me?! Get out of my house!”
Fear.
Real, animalistic fear washed through me.
I reacted before I could think.
I slapped him.
Not out of anger but out of survival instinct.
Because he had strangled me once before, and the memory flashed like lightning.
I was terrified that history was about to repeat itself.
And then
He dragged me.
Across the room.
Across the floor.
His grip bruising my arm.
He pinned me down, breathing heavily, towering over me like he was fighting a war.
He raised his hand…
Then stopped halfway.
He pulled back slowly, like he realized hitting me would change everything permanently.
He stood up, breathing hard.
“Pack your things and leave.”
It wasn’t the first time.
It wouldn’t be the last.
The Dining Table Incident
There was another day at the dining table.
He told me:
“Whenever you’re serving food, stand up. That’s how I want it.”
I looked at him.
Straight in the eye.
“I am not your maid.”
I continued sitting, calmly serving the food.
He erupted again.
Told me to leave.
Told me to get out of his house.
Threatened to drop me off immediately.
Every disagreement ended the same way:
• “Leave my house.”
• Silence for days.
• Ignoring messages.
• Punishing me emotionally.
• Making me feel unwanted, unloved, replaceable.
It was emotional abuse, mental abuse, manipulation, gaslighting, psychological warfare and physical abuse sprinkled in between.
- Writer
