Breadwinner
he loves me cruelly (a short story)
This is a narrative I wrote in high school (edited). I tried to write and find some inspiration for this week’s post, but it’s been really hard with the news of the election results. This piece feels painfully poignant given our current circumstances. Sending all my love to everyone who feels confused, anxious, or anything else.
Content warning for domestic abuse, alcoholism.
“Breadwinner”
A short story. Written May 23rd, 2022.
He calls me the most horrid and foul words that humankind has ever dared utter. He handles me like I am made of rubber and steel and the damage imprints itself on my skin. And I tolerate it. I know that I do not deserve it. I’ve created, kneaded, shaped, and moulded myself to be deserving of him. The kindness, compassion, patience, and selflessness create a glutinous adhesive holding the cruelty and misery together. I do not deserve it, but this—this is fair, as he gave me his love. I know he loved me. He loves me. He loves me.
He loves me.
It is fair. He built our home with sixteen-hour workdays and hands calloused from labor. I am the keeper of this foundation, the one who ensures that slips of the mouth or hand never spill over. He earned me, paid for me in sweat and effort. If he is the breadwinner, then I am his prize, an object of regard, made worthy through his labor.
The cracks on his knuckles, split and dried from toil under the sweltering sun, match the bruises scattered across my arms, thighs, and neck—a mosaic of pinks, purples, browns, and greens. He tells me I am beautiful, and I believe him.
I know I am loved. I know this in my bones.
The world is unjust. His supervisor reprimands him for a minor, insignificant error at work. He recounts the incident over warm glasses of whiskey and slices of sourdough bread. The bitters in his drink linger on his breath as he hurls words, each one a lash. I watch the glass tremble in his grip, feel the weight of his fingers pressing into my arm. The room feels like it’s burning, and I know I’ll be scorched if I look him in the eye. I absorb his words, letting them settle like sugar at the bottom of my glass, my shame rising like heat under my skin. If I hadn’t forgotten to pack his lunch, perhaps he’d have the strength to be more careful. His rage shatters the silence, a balm to ease the tension.
If that’s what it takes, then I can take it.
We were once so full of wonder. I’d toss myself onto my bed, clutching my heart with joy as though I were a lovesick girl in a storybook. Every Saturday, I’d meet him at his mother’s house with fresh brioche buns in hand, and we’d chatter over trivial internet debates and old high school friends. The room is lit up despite the sun just peeking from beneath the rolling hills. The warmth of the light spreads through my veins, cracking at the apples of my cheeks.
We are changed. The foundation of the house quivers as his footsteps thunder. I stand still, greeting him with a dinner that needs to be reheated after sitting out for four hours untouched. He tosses me upon the wall with terrifying strength plastering my back to the surface. I am acutely aware that I am encaged, yet unafraid because he would never mean to hurt me. His words are slurred together and unintelligible, but the meaning is made clear. The following morning, I place two pills and some stale crackers on his bedside table. As I cautiously watch him recover from the night before, I treat my wrists with ointment and ice my arms to fade the discolouration from the broken capillaries he left in the wake of his disoriented state.
Three days after our housewarming party, my sister calls. She asks if I’m okay; I’ve never felt better. She says he seems rough after drinking, that she’s noticed how much I’ve changed. I’ve traded my sweet, floral perfume for something musky, now serve him rare steak, when I once wouldn’t touch meat with blood. Our apartment faces north, although I once dreamed of southern sunlight pouring through wide, warm windows. Why should she know the reasons for my choices?
“You have no sense of self-respect,” she says.
She doesn’t understand: I’ve chosen to respect him.
She asks again, “Are you sure you’re okay?” Yes, I’m fine.
For I am not who I was, nor who I could have been, but what I’ve become. I am bread, risen, baked, and hardened. Bread can never go back to dough, and so it’s essential to shape it well. He has done that for me. Yet I am not what he calls me or how he treats me; I am simply what I allow myself to become. For he loved me.