BROKEN IN HALF.

Rainbow.

I can feel his gaze on me, a weight that presses upon my skin. His eyes are boring into my soul, watching, waiting, and searching for the slightest misstep. Every move I make is under scrutiny, every breath a potential trigger for his wrath.

How do I know he's looking at me?

I can sense it.

The air seems to vibrate with tension whenever his attention is focused on me. The silence is oppressive, punctuated only by the sound of my own heartbeat. I don't dare meet his gaze, fearing what I might see there. Instead, I keep my eyes downcast, my movements deliberate and cautious, as I try to navigate this treacherous landscape.

It's difficult to put into words, but I've grown accustomed to a peculiar sensation – a tingling feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever he looks my way. It's as if my body has developed a sixth sense, a warning system that alerts me to his gaze.

In the early days, this sensation brought butterflies, a thrilling sign of new love. But now, it fills me with dread. I'm paralyzed by fear, hesitant to make even the slightest sound. The mere act of chewing my food becomes a high-stakes gamble. Will he deem it too loud? Will he lash out, hurling a plate in my direction? It's a constant, gnawing anxiety that has defined our daily routine for three excruciating years.

We've been married for five years now, and it's astonishing how quickly love can curdle into fear.

Five years. It's hard to believe it's been that long since we exchanged our vows. I wish I could say it's been happily ever after, but that's far from the truth. The first two years were indeed blissful. We'd spend hours talking, sharing our dreams, and basking in each other's love. But the past three years have been a descent into darkness.

The third year was the worst. I remember the feeling of being a prisoner in my own home. He'd lash out at me for the smallest infractions, like being visible when he had guests. The shame and humiliation still burn within me. Scoffs... even now, it's hard to believe I endured such treatment.

I was trapped, unable to escape the toxic environment he created. When I suggested leaving the house during gatherings, he accused me of seeking excuses to squander his money. The irony was suffocating – I was a prisoner in my own home.

His sudden transformation left me bewildered. The constant parade of women in our home, the sounds of their intimacy echoing through the halls, was a cruel torture. Knowing that just days prior, we had shared the same moments of passion, now filled me with anguish.

I was silenced, forced to swallow my emotions, my anger, my hurt. Any attempt to confront his infidelity was met with brutal beatings. The pain was suffocating, the betrayal a heavy weight that crushed my soul.

How could he do this to me? I had given him my everything, my love, my heart, my life. Was loving him too much of a crime? Was devotion and loyalty not enough?

Have you ever loved someone so intensely that the mere thought of their rejection or hatred feels like a slow, agonizing death? The ache within me is a constant reminder of the fragility of love and the cruelty of those who abuse it.

You might call me a coward, but I felt trapped by my circumstances. I couldn't risk being thrown out, not when the orphanage depended on his support. Those children's well-being was my responsibility, and I couldn't abandon them.

My own body became a battleground, a vessel for the children we'd never have. Each pregnancy was a brief, shining hope, extinguished by his violence. I lost count of the times I felt his fists, the cruel words that cut deeper than any blow. Three miscarriages, each one a devastating reminder of what we'd lost.

The third time almost took my life, leaving me shattered, my spirit broken. That was the moment I realized our relationship was beyond repair. The man I loved had become a monster, determined to destroy me, body and soul.

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes as I think of my lost babies. Wherever they are, I imagine they must hate me and see me as a failure for not protecting them. The weight of my guilt is crushing, and the pain of my helplessness is still fresh.

These days, my existence is a mere routine. I cook, we eat, and sometimes the silence is the only sound between us. On rare occasions, he eats without insulting me, and I cling to those moments as fragile blessings.

His voice cut through the silence, a sharp rebuke that made me flinch. "Are you going to stare at your food all day? I don't get why you insist on having meals together when all you do is space out."

I felt a sting of tears, but I hastily wiped them away, afraid to show any weakness. "Sorry, I'm not very hungry," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

His response was a scornful laugh. "I wouldn't be hungry either if my cooking was this horrible." He shoved the plate away, the sound of it scraping against the table echoing through the room.

He gathered his bag and walked out the door, leaving me in a sea of silence. This is our reality now – a cold, loveless existence where words are used as weapons, not whispers of affection. When he does speak to me, it's to tear me down, to criticize every aspect of my being. My clothes, my hair, my cooking – nothing is ever good enough.

The weight of his disdain is crushing me, the pain a constant, gnawing ache that threatens to consume me whole. I'm exhausted, drained by the endless cycle of hurt and humiliation. All I want is for it to end, for the agony to cease, for the love we once shared to be reborn – or for me to find the strength to walk away.

I'm at my breaking point. The weight of my shattered dreams, the pain of my present, and the uncertainty of my future are suffocating me. I'm torn between the memories of what we once had and the harsh reality of what we've become. The love we shared, the laughter, the adventures – all seem like a distant dream now.

My heart is shattered, my soul crushed. I feel like I'm drowning in a sea of despair, unable to find a lifeline to cling to. The thought of continuing this way is unbearable, yet the fear of letting go and starting anew is paralyzing. I'm trapped in this cycle of pain, unsure of how to escape or if I'll ever find my way back to myself.