You hate it when he comes home.

When he’s gone, it’s not so bad. The shame lessens. The guilt fades. The pain dulls. When he’s gone, you can convince yourself that you’re something you’re not. You can convince yourself that you’re something you can never be. When he’s gone, you can live with yourself, if only for a little while.

The coming home is the worst part. It’s not the drinking, it’s not the constant demeaning, it’s not the beatings. No, the worst part is watching the monster you can’t help but love come through your front door drunk and angry, stinking of sex, vodka, and a woman who isn’t you.

And when he shouts your name as he always does, you can do nothing but wrap your bathrobe a little tighter around your battered and bruised frame in search of the comfort no one can provide. You can do nothing but hide from him and hope that maybe the beating will be a little less severe tonight even though you know you deserve it.

Because you do deserve it.

You know you do.

The rational part of you, the part that so very rarely comes to light, tells you that you’ve done nothing to warrant such punishment. But deep in your subconscious, buried in the core of your very being, you know you deserve it. The painful beatings, the incessant drinking, the knowledge that he’ll never love you like you love him… you deserve all of it. You deserve all of it twice over because you’ve failed.

You’ve failed to provide the love and support he needs. You’ve failed to be there for him. You’ve lied to him, you’ve dreamed about someone other than him, but most of all, you’ve hated him. You’ve hated him and for it, you hate yourself.

You deserve it more than anyone else ever could.

It’s how you console yourself every time his fists come down. You repeat it over and over again in your head like some cryptic mantra, the words only serving to remind you of your numerous mistakes and all that could have been if not for you.

I deserve this.

But every time he comes home, every time you see the disappointment and the rage in those vivid eyes that remind you so much of your disappointment in yourself, you can’t help but wonder. And, as much as you hate yourself for it, you can’t help but hope.

How many times is he going to do this to you?

How many times are you going to let him?

And every time you dare to hope, every time you dare to think for yourself, you beat it back down. You’re not going to tell anyone, you’re not going to so much as think about leaving him- you deserve this.

I deserve this.

So when the door slams against the wall and he stumbles drunkenly into the house, bellowing your name and throwing furniture until he finds you, you refuse to hope. And when he finally finds you and begins to shout at you for your innumerable flaws, you refuse to protest.

I deserve this.

And when his fists begin to rain blows upon your body in the same places they did the night before and the night before that and the night before that, you refuse to think about what could have been different. You push the hope down and you refuse to protest.

After all, you deserve this.