He would put sleeping powder in my drink.
It took me a while to realise. At first, I thought maybe I was just exhausted. Work had been stressful, life had been heavy, and I kept telling myself it was catching up with me. That it was normal to feel drained, to struggle to keep my eyes open, to wake up groggy and unsure of how I even got to bed.
But it wasn’t just tiredness.
It was something else.
Something he was doing.
I’d wake up confused, not knowing what had happened or where I was. My head would throb, my mouth dry, my body feeling like dead weight against the mattress. Sometimes I’d wake up on the couch, still fully clothed. Other times, in bed, but missing pieces of what I’d worn the night before.
And sometimes, I’d also feel pain.
You know, down there.
At first, I tried to push it away, tried to convince myself I was imagining it. That I was just overthinking, that maybe I’d just slept weird, maybe I’d rolled over too hard, maybe it was something else.
But deep down, I knew.
I never saw it happen. Never felt it in the moment. He made sure of that.
Maybe that was a good thing in a way—because I wouldn’t remember what he did.
Maybe forgetting was better.
But it didn’t make it okay.
Because the truth was still there, waiting for me when I woke up. The ache in my body, the way my skin crawled, the way I just knew.
I started trying to stay awake.
I’d sip my drink slowly, pretend I was drinking more than I was. I’d fight the heaviness in my eyes, will myself to stay alert. But it never worked. No matter how much I tried, I’d wake up the same way.
Because if I couldn’t even trust myself to stay awake, to be aware, to stop him—then what else could I do?
Nothing.
And he knew that.
That was the worst part.
He knew.
