“Wow, Bel. Your last story was so bad, I thought that was the worst. I was wrong. This one is much, much worse,” said Pete, as he threw down my notebook in disgust.
I waited for his tall, wiry frame to stomp on his cigarette and walk out the door before letting the disappointment show on my face. I picked up my notebook and read through the story. It sounded good to me, but just to be sure, I went to ask Bertie for his opinion.
Bertie was retired, childless, honest, and in his late sixties. We shared a thin wall, so he heard everything that went on in our house—it didn't help that Pete was always a bit too loud. Bertie was waiting to comfort me, knowing I'd show up at his door as soon as Pete left.
“Would you be a darlin’ and make this old man some coffee?” Bertie was trying to keep me occupied so that I didn’t give in to the sadness that threatened to engulf me. So I made the coffee–strong, just the way Bertie liked it–and I heard a rustling sound that meant that Bertie was reading my story.
“Sit down, girl. Pour yourself a glass as well. I don’t like to drink alone, whether it’s coffee or alcohol,” he winked.
“If you insist, Bertie" I sighed.
“I wonder what his problem was with this story”, Bertie asked me, ever so casually.
“Pete said it was insipid”, I responded sullenly.
“Insipid? What’s that now? How does he keep coming up with newer and newer ways to insult you?”
“It means that my story lacks flavor. That it’s weak. And tasteless.”
“Hm. This calls for some alcohol, dunnit?”
“Bertie!” I said, chagrined at the suggestion.
“Bel, Bel, Bel. You listen to me, kid. I think this is the best one yet. The characters, the plot, the mystery…phew! It isn’t like anything I’ve ever read before. The only reason Pete hates it is because he knows he can never write anything half as good.”
That night as I went to bed, I tried to think of what Bertie told me, instead of mulling over Pete's words. But try as I might, I couldn’t get the word ‘insipid’ out of my head. Over the next few days, I found that I was unable to write. Not one word escaped my fingers as I desperately tried to create something with my typewriter.
A lot more people read the story after Bertie gave it to the neighbor’s kid. Compliments had been pouring in all week. Everyone in my colony loved the story, and I only received praise after praise. The only negative review I had received was from Pete. Yet, it was the only one I cared about.
It wasn’t just because Pete was my fiancé. He was also my publisher. He had ten bestsellers to his name and a degree in English from Oxford. But that was all three years ago, before his publishing house shut down from a fire. Pete did not take that well—he took to drinking, and his dependence on alcohol grew.
He started getting bitter and cynical, often taking his anger out on me. Sometimes, it felt like it was his life's mission to make me miserable. In the ten years I had known him, he’d never been in worse shape than he was now.
“That’s no excuse to treat you this way”, Bertie always told me. “Man’s got a problem and he ought to deal with it, not take it out on you.”
In moments like these, I tried to picture the Pete I had first known, the Pete I had fallen for. Quick-witted and opinionated, he was always arguing passionately about something. Now, it seemed like he only used these skills to taunt me in every way possible.
“Why, Bel? Why do you do this to yourself? Why don’t you ever leave him?” Bertie kept asking me. It soon became a rhetoric question that I only shrugged in answer to.
— — — 6 years later — ——
“Pete! I almost didn’t recognize you there.”
“Wow, Bel. You look greater than ever.”
“Pete, this is Evan, my husband." Pete looked shocked.
“Husb– Wha– You got married?”
“Yes. Didn’t you?”
“I’m running late, Bel. I gotta go. Sorry.” And with that, Pete rushed off into the rain. That was the last I ever saw of him.
I thought back to our time together. I remembered the night Pete read my next story. He got so...angry, so jealous... that he threw his glass at me. I ducked in time, but the glass shattered on the wall behind me. That was when I realized, the Pete I lived with, wasn't my Pete. Not any more. There wasn't a shred of him left in there.
The man who came home stinking of liquor each night, who grunted a word of goodbye before he left in the morning, was someone else. Someone twisted and jealous, who couldn't stand to see me shine.
It was hard to leave him, knowing that I'd be homeless. But Bertie slipped me some cash, and I walked away from my Pete, the Pete that was now dead. This man who remained–he was just a ghost of the man I fell in love with. Not even a ghost, a monster. An insipid monster.
Emotional abuse affects 12 million people each year. Emotional abuse may be more devastating than physical abuse, and it is often caused by the people closest to the victim.
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