The first time he shoved me, I apologized for upsetting him.
The first time he criticized me publicly, I apologized for not being good enough.
The first time he called me worthless, I blamed myself for being such a crone.
"What the hell is wrong with me?"
I'd asked myself time after time.

The first time he stripped me and lashed at my buttocks, he called me naive for not enjoying the pain.
He said he had no use for someone who isn't a masochist.
He called me old school for complaining about the grotesque marks that were all over my body for weeks.
Again, I convinced myself that the hatred I saw in his eyes was actually pleasure.
And yet, that was just the first of the gazillion scars he gave me.

The first time I spoke up against the ill treatments, he broke my teeth with his fist. He said he would teach me a lesson I wouldn't forget in a hurry, and of course he kept to his words. I laid in bed for days. Broken.
He said my...