I still remember that belt. Just thinking about it makes me feel sick.
It wasn’t just an object. It was a threat. A reminder. A way to keep me in line.
He never needed to raise his voice. Never needed to say a word. He just had to leave it there, in plain sight, making sure I saw it. Moving it around so I couldn’t escape it. Draped over the back of a chair. Coiled neatly on the table. Hung on the doorframe like it was nothing at all.
But it wasn’t nothing.
I knew exactly what it meant—the consequences if I made even the smallest mistake.
And I did make mistakes. Of course, I did.
A plate left in the sink too long. A shirt not folded the way he liked. Speaking when I shouldn’t. Being too slow. Being too fast. Being anything at all.
The worst part wasn’t even the belt itself. It was the waiting. The moments when I saw it, when I knew it was coming, when I felt my stomach drop and my hands start to shake before he even touched me.
I hate that belt. I hate that even now, I can still feel it. The sting, the snap, the burn that lingered long after he was done. I hate how it made me small, made me silent, made me afraid to exist in my own home.
But more than anything, I hate him.
Because he knew.
He knew exactly what he was doing. And he enjoyed it.
