Pretty, he called you. You felt your cheeks bloom red, and the rest was history.

He hasn’t called you pretty in a while, you think. You look at yourself in the mirror and see premature wrinkles setting your lips in a permanent frown, grey hairs so out of place on your head. Your hands shake when you hand him things, now, a permanent tremor you can’t seem to shake. You barely talk anymore, voice and wispy when you mumble out the barest agreements to him.

You’re sitting at the vanity he made you. He still called you pretty, then, as you sat watching him build it. There’s still the ornate carvings he made for you, weaving in and out and around the mirror.

The makeup brush in your hand moves as your hand trembles. You’re covering a bruise he gave you with foundation two shades darker than your skin. He threw out all your makeup when you first started dating-

“You’re too pretty for this stuff, sweetheart,”

You don’t go outside as much as you used to. Swimming kind of lost it’s value after you gained that weight. He doesn’t like looking at your fat. You’re supposed to be pretty.

You walk back out into the family room, watching as your husband sits on the seat he bought for you. You hand him the food you slaved over, sitting to the side and watching as he eats, meek, timid, muted. His face twists, anger painting his features-

“God, woman, what’re you good for? This shit is disgusting.”

You wipe the half-chewed foot off your lounge pants, quietly grabbing the dish from his white-knuckled fingers and walking back to the kitchen.

He’s only done it a couple times.

He’ll only do it for the rest of your life.

“Quit crying. You did this to yourself.”

You love him. You do.