Imprison (verb):

1) To put in jail: confine, detain, immure, incarcerate, intern, jail, lock (up).

2) To enclose so as to hinder or prohibit escape: closet, confine, shut up.

He loves watching her cry. Correction, he loves making her cry.

His heart swells at the pleas that choke out of her pretty mouth. He relishes in the absolute power he holds over her. He treasures each pitiful whimper that escapes her swollen mouth. He thinks she is most beautiful when she is gasping for oxygen, faint and exhausted, cowering like a cornered animal desperate for freedom. She never puts up a fight; she only attempts to feebly wards off his first attacks. Her efforts result in nothing. Her energy is wasted in vain.

He thinks the bloodshot look of forlorn she holds in her glassy brown eyes peering up at him meekly from the dirty floor are simply exquisite. He likes the thought of her being in pain. He enjoys breaking her apart so he could hold her quivering body in his muscular arms, imprisoning her to remind her who she belonged to even at her weakest state.

He gets such a kick out of dominating her vulnerable soul, time and time again. He is immune to her pained sobbing episodes and only concentrates on the task of increasing her discomfort until she is pushed over the brink. Nothing tugs his heartstrings. Nothing can stop his fun once he gets going.

Eventually, he would scoop her up into his arms and cradle her little body against him, rocking her gently and wishing she had more stamina so he could continue the fun.

He can't exactly pinpoint or place his finger on what exactly makes him behave like he does, but he gets such an exhilarating drive out of torturing her he simply discards her fears and wants. Every few weeks, when he arrives home from work, he grins to himself upon entrance and counts down the precious minutes until he could stand over her naked and bruised form while adrenaline rushes through his veins.

She looks so delicious, crumpled and shaking like no tomorrow, hair in disarray and dried sweat caked to her teary face. He is the master at imprisoning an angel.

He makes his move.

Terror overtakes her fragile body. Sometimes it is on-going without stop, the pain is beyond words but other times, he would be gentle and sweet before striking her with his fists momentarily and repeating the cycle. Maybe tonight, he might not go full throttle mode. She prays. She hopes. Desperately so. Scrambling backwards hastily, she trips over the rug and sprawls painfully upon the floor, wincing as her tailbone throbs violently.

He smirks, pure sadism, and takes a big step closer. She never screamed. She will not scream. Even after all these years, the routine never slipped. No screams have ever slipped past that pouty little mouth. Only moans and violent weeping. She knew the consequences of screaming. The gleam in his eyes forewarned her most clearly.

It always seems like eternity before he is done, she knows not the difference of hours and minutes when he is in action. He always seem to know exactly when to stop his ministrations before he actually injures her too severely and needed to seek medical attention for her.

She lies, motionless, consumed by a river of hurt. He runs a hand through his thick brown hair and steps towards her, demeanor changed. Crouching down, he softly strokes her curves with a finger. Each touch he brings only exaggerates the aching her nerves are dealing with.

This is the man she fell in love with, heads over heels. This is the man she gave her heart to in junior high. He took over her world the day he asked her out. She abandoned her friends and shunned her family. Look where she is now. Alas. She stopped caring long ago.

He picks up her limp body and heads towards the bathroom. He prepares her a lavish bath of aromatheraphic oils to help speed up the process to healing her bruises. She doesn't flinch when he strips her and takes her savagely, overcome with lust. She sits there blinking, drowned by bubbles as he glides his hand over her tender stomach, still tingling from his earlier blows.

They lie there for a while, until the water grows cold. Her head over his steady heartbeat, in the silence her bleeding heart wailing in response. He kisses her forehead like a lover should – a lover who doesn't take up fists to their loved one – and caresses her mangled hair.

"How is your day today, angel?" He finally asks, for he always initiated the conversation and she did not speak unless spoken to.

Aftershocks of her crying episode grips her as tears burn from behind her eyelids. She swallows hard and shudders, hoping she says the right thing.

"I missed you," she offers quietly, strangely enough, she means every single word.

He smiles a triumphant smile that never reaches his eyes.

"I know you do, angel," he whispers then dips her for an extremely rough kiss.

She willingly lets him assault her body and ignores the shame welling on her shoulders.

After a few rounds of intercourse, she lets him do as he pleases. They make it to bed, where he starts giving her the cold shoulder treatment. A different kind of pain consumes her. She expects this pain every night but it doesn't hurt less each reoccurring lash. She digs nails into her palms to quell the overwhelming emotions. The only time he pays attention to her is when she's in pain. Or naked. Usually both.

Huddling into a little ball under the covers, she tries to fall asleep.

Later at night, she wakes up clenching the covers and afraid, woken by repetitive nightmares that never leave her alone. Saturated in cold sweat and tear ducts firing to go, he barks at her harshly and crushes her to his broad chest, furious she disrupted his sleep. She shivers for a few minutes, delicately not. Sniffing herself to sleep, she falls asleep, under the illusion she is safe within his arms. And she believes.

In the following morning, everything would seem alright. There will be no black eyes on her lovely face or any visible bruises marring her flawless skin, for he is smart enough to afflict her in places no one would know. She'll continue smiling that stunning smile, while he gives her a tablet to take for the pain. She'll walk him to the door and peck at his cheek dutifully, in respect.

She'll spend all day, boxed up in his gigantic mansion, lonely and depressed, daydreaming about them.

She can only guess since she has no way of certifying, that yet another unborn baby is destroyed last night by his actions. Placing a hand over her belly, she chokes back the pain. Regret and helplessness suffocates her, she'll never realize that she can end all this.

Cruel irony reminds her that he said he liked children a few years ago. She heads towards the kitchen on shaky footing and reaches for the ice packs. Children. A bitter taste washes through her tongue. She would like children. She would like to become a mother. She would like to have a baby. The ice pack drops onto the floor with a thud as her knees give out underneath. Breaking down in an umpteenth fit of tears; she gives into yet another catharsis affair.

Despite everything, she still loves him with every broken piece of her decrepit heart.

Just to make things very clear, I do not have an abusive boyfriend. Never had, probably won't ever since I tend to be the abusive one in any relationship. Violence is disgusting, especially when some people have no ways of defending themselves.