“How can you not see?” Mark slammed his hand against the steering wheel. “This will ruin our marriage!”
“It wont be this that ruins our marriage,” sighed Emily.
She regretted coming. Mark had asked for help closing up the holiday cottage for winter, and shed agreed. But thisfour hours trapped together in the confines of a car.
It was late autumn, the air sharp with cold. Rain had plagued the week, but today the clouds had relented. Side by side, theyd prepared the cottage: clearing shelves, sealing bags of flour (mice would come, otherwise), boarding up the windows, draining the taps.
To Emily, it felt like they were draining the life from the house, locking it into hibernation until spring.
As they left, the sun broke through unexpectedly, casting golden light over the rows of cottages. Theirs stood hunched, lonely.
Tears pricked her eyes.
She climbed into the car, fastened her seatbelt.
In that moment, she *was* the cottage. Still standing. Walls intact. Roof secure. But no light insidejust shuttered windows, barred against the world.
And just as hollow.
Their marriage suffocated her. Shed wanted out for yearsachingly, desperately. But escaping felt impossible, like wading through quicksand.
*”Bad”* didnt begin to cover it. From the second day of their marriage, it had been a slow, creeping poison.
*”Come here,”* Mark had summoned her that morning, voice clipped. *”You left the bathroom, and now the curtains dripping onto the floor. Fix it.”*
She had. Why couldnt he just do it himself? One second of effort
*”Now here,”* hed called from the kitchen. *”Why did you open a second carton of milk?”*
*”I didnt see the first one.”*
*”What were you looking with?”*
Shed said nothing. Her *eyes*, obviously.
*”Is your vision alright?”* Mock concern. *”Fine?”*
*”Yes.”*
*”And the milk cartonis it invisible?”*
Shed cried then, bewildered by the icy reprimand over something so trivial.
This was his way. If *she* noticed his socks strewn about or the balcony door left open, she simply fixed it. Quietly. No interrogation, no humiliation.
But *she* was always summoned. Corrected. Mocked. *”Do you understand?”*
And the question he loved most: *”Are you even normal?”*
By year two, Emily struggled to answer. Maybe she wasnt.
Later, she learned the word *gaslighting*. Psychological torture designed to make you doubt your own mind. *”Maybe I really am broken.”*
She felt herself slipping. Terrified of mistakes, she made more of them.
*”Come here,”* Mark would bark, and shed shuffle in, shoulders hunched. *What have I done now?*
Yet at work, she thrivedefficient, capable, flawless under pressure.
Her survival tactic: on bad days, *do something*. Anything. Organise a shelf. Bake a cake. Fold laundry.
When the weight crushed her, shed cling to these small victories. *”Today wasnt wasted. Lookclean shelves. Neatly pressed sheets.”*
*”Why are you staring at the windowsill?”* Mark would sneer.
(Because shed cleared it, and it was proof she hadnt drowned.)
Or: *”Whats so interesting about the wardrobe?”*
(Because shed arranged every jumper, every sock, every pair of tightsorder in chaos.)
*”Are you insane?”*
Then came the job offer.
Another city. Four hours away.
She accepted instantly, giddy with relief.
Like divorce, but the decision wasnt hersit was circumstance.
Perfect.
Mark was furious. At her audacity. At her daring to choose alone.
*”This will ruin our marriage!”* he roared.
*”No,”* she whispered. *”It wont.”*
Once, at a childs birthday party, shed watched a cryo-showkids making ice cream with liquid nitrogen.
*”At what temperature does nitrogen boil?”* the entertainer asked cheerfully.
The children, all four or five years old, stared blankly.
(So did the adults.)
*”Negative 196 degrees! And which country invented ice cream? Hint: Chi… Chi…”*
*”Kinder?”* guessed the birthday boy.
*”China!”* The entertainer laughed.
Emily had watched, struck by the mismatchthe party meant for older children, the little ones bewildered.
Her marriage was the same.
Marriage was for *grown-ups*. Stifling. Claustrophobic. Like a bus with sealed windows because *someone* might catch a chill.
A never-ending battle between fresh air and drafts.
Between staying and suffocating.
When shed stepped into this marriage, shed imagined a double-decker busspacious, scenic, a shared adventure.
Instead, shed found a cage.
*”Maybe Im just not cut out for marriage,”* shed thought. *Maybe Im not smart enough, patient enough, strong enough.*
But the truth?
*”Distance wont kill us. Its that you dont want to love meyou want to punish me. Im always wrong. Always not normal. But I* am *normal. Youve just convinced me a second milk carton is a crime. When its just milk. You dont see me. You smother me with words. All Im good at now is silenceor apologies. Our love died long ago. The funerals over. Divorce is just the headstone. Official. Final.
Im sealed up in this marriage like our cottage. But its just for winter. Im trapped for life. And I refuse.
I want that other city. Ill breathe there. Ive never been, but its already betterbecause you wont be there.
There, milk will just be milk. A curtain, just a curtain. Mistakes, just mistakesnot crimes. There, Ill be normal. Because the only place Im not is in your eyes.”*
She didnt say it aloud.
Some tormentors dont know theyre tormentors. And trying to explain only proves *youre* the mad one.
The car stopped at a red light.
Emily unclipped her seatbelt and stepped out onto the road.
Because the most dangerous place on earth was staying beside him.
