– BREAKING POINT –

‘I do.’

Laughter.
The rustle of her white silk gown as he dances with her.
The gentle glint of their silver rings reflecting the warmth of the sunlight.
They are bound. Tied together, forever.

‘Till death do us part.

Perhaps she loves him too much. Far more than a woman should love a man.
She barely even knows him.
But that’s all right, because he loves her too.

To the outsider, they’re the perfect couple. He’s wealthy; she’s beautiful. He works, earns the money; she stays at home to cook and clean. As the perfect wife should.
She never argues with him.
He is good to her.

‘Have you made dinner yet?’
‘Of course I have. You’ll love it tonight.’
‘I’d better.’
‘Yes…you’d better.’

At the dinner table, they speak idly.
He eats cautiously, acting like the dominant husband he wants to be.
She sips her wine graciously, acting like the placid wife she should be.
He won’t tell her about the new young secretary at work. Not yet.
She doesn’t bother to mention she tipped the mowing man an extra fifty dollars for his services.
Yet somehow the other knows – and still they don’t talk.
They love each other.
But there is only a dark silence.

Their love is like the invisible rope that ties them – new, it had been strong, sturdy, binding. As if it was unbreakable.
So they play with it, tugging it, testing its strength.
But like all new things, it begins to…wear out.

Weak. Frail. Frayed.

One wrong movement will be enough to snap it.
So they wait.
They aren’t sure why. Maybe the rope will give out on its own. Maybe if it does snap, they can tie it together again.
But they don’t like waiting.

The strong rule, the weak are ruled over.

‘I didn’t like dinner.’
‘You…didn’t?’
‘No.’

My face stings from the unexpected strike, my eyes burning with tears of humiliation and pain, but regardless I force my head up to meet his furious face, his seething glare, with defiance. His hand is still raised, ready to bestow another blow – his face wrought with an expression of vulgar triumph, proud of this new-found ‘power’ he holds over my head tauntingly.
No.
I still clutch the expensive china plate in my slippery grip, dripping with the soapy water I had been washing it in. A wedding present. I watch his face with glee when I see his triumphant expression melt into pure horror as the plate smashes at his feet, the shards of china flying everywhere. The shattering blast does not reach my ears – only the yell of shock he issues when he jumps backwards in a flurried attempt to keep out of harm’s my – my way.
“You bitch,” he snarls, advancing towards me again, his hand rising once more in what is supposed to be a threatening manner. The shards of china crunch under the soles of his shoes. I should be scared of him. He wants me to be afraid. Which I’m not.
But I move backwards anyway.
I don’t know why.

The cold voice in the back of your mind torments you.
‘You’re scared.’
‘I’m not,’ you snap back.
‘You’ve always been scared.’
‘Shut up!’
The voice just laughs softly.

“You will not touch me,” I hiss, my back jutting against the cold granite bench as my hand fumbles around behind me, aching to grasp the familiar tool which had graced my palm too many times before. My fingers close around the smooth metal hilt of the carving knife, gripping it tightly.

It’s like a game. A dare.
‘Can you? Will you?’

His eyes follow the subtle movement and his face flashes with an emotion too quickly for me to catch it – fear, perhaps? Amusement? – and he freezes, his arm wavering warily. His face softens; we stare at each other for a few agonisingly slow moments which feel like hours, his burning question smouldering between us – will you do it? Are you really going to? – before he lowers his hand to my stinging face again. I nearly flinch away from his touch, but this time it is to caress me, not to slap me.

‘You didn’t answer his question,’ the voice jeers.

I let him embrace me, let his arms wrap around my waist, let his lips press soft provocative kisses to my face, my neck; allow myself to become part of the dangerous, seductive game he has initiated.
I fall.

‘You’re weak.’

He’s taking control.

He always knew just how to make you fall.
Just how lightly he needed to brush your skin to make you shiver.
Just where he needed to kiss you to make you moan.
Just how to take control.

I have no upper hand in this – just my own hand wrapped around a cold silver carving knife handle. With every breathless kiss we share, I feel my fingers trembling, aching to release their anchor, slipping…release…
My silver wedding band clinks against the metal, a soft stinging hiss gliding through the silent air, and for a moment – a bare second – my husband hesitates.
My eyes are closed. His warm breath tickles my neck as his hand slides down my shoulder to my hand. I barely feel his fingers brushing over mine, subtly uncoiling my grip on the knife as he whispers in my ear and pulls me against his body, his other hand dancing at my shirt buttons.

Don’t lose control –

“Say it,” he whispers.
What does he mean –?
…Oh.

– You hate it –
– Youhateityouhateityouhateit–

“Say it,” he whispers again, this time with a little more urgency.

– You hate him, damn it don’t say it –

“I…I…” My tongue won’t wrap around the words. The sounds aren’t forming in my throat.
He pulls my hand up to his chest.
– When did I let go of the knife –?
“…Please…” he murmurs. “Say it.”
He’s begging.

DONTSAYITDONTSAYITDONTSAYIT –

“I love you.”
The words tumble from my mouth before I can stop them.

‘You’re weak,’ the voice hisses disapprovingly. ‘You’re a weak fool.’
You smile. ‘I don’t care. I love him.’

He sighs, his chest muscles immediately relaxing underneath my hand. He holds me tightly, kissing the curve of my neck. My lips curl into a slight grin.
He whispers my name, his voice laced with the same begging urgency. “I lo-”
I press a finger to his lips.

“I know.”