Nica's Rotten Life Part 1

Warning: The following contains: physical and sexual abuse and strong language. Reader discretion is advised.

Author's Note: I'm still working on "Akayuki". For now, this is something I wrote in 2024. The setting is modern day America. Nica is an aspiring writer stuck in an abusive relationship. Michael is her hermit neighbor. Freddy's the person who brings them together. Chucky's here, but quiet for now. Please don't mistake this as glorifying abuse. I'm not. If it feels too real, I've lived it so that's why. This is me healing, not glorifying. If you are in this situation, there is help. Don't be afraid to ask.

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. It is intended for entertainment purposes only. Any resemblance to actual persons living or deceased is purely coincidental. 

~o~

He hit me again. Closed my laptop before I had time to save my work and jerked my wheelchair away from the table. I knew without asking where we were going. The bedroom. Yep. He rolled me into the cramped space, kicked the door closed behind us, and then lifted me out of my chair. He laid me down on the bed, treating me like a princess now when only a few seconds ago he was treating me like I was his personal punching bag. He undressed me from the waist down because that’s all he wanted anyway, then took off his jeans, boots and socks, and rolled up his T-shirt. He dropped everything of his into the seat of my wheelchair. All of my clothes had been dropped on the floor like trash. I didn’t complain. He would get violent again if I complained. But I did like that skirt he treated so carelessly. Down to his boxers at last, he climbed on top of me. He mashed his lips against mine. I didn’t kiss back. I let him have total control because that’s what he wanted. I didn’t say a word the entire time. I didn’t even moan when he rubbed his hardness against me. I didn’t touch him. I knew not to. I kept my hands on the mattress the entire time. As for protection, he didn’t use any and I didn’t request he use any. He would kill me if I suggested he put on a condom. He would also kill me if I ever got pregnant, but my job was to make sure I didn’t get pregnant. How he expected me to defy biology, I didn’t ask. Asking would invite another beating. He made it quick today. He didn’t want to please me. He got what he needed, pulled out, and told me how awful I was. Dead. Dry as hell. Ugly. He put on his boxers.

“Clean yourself up. You have cum on your legs.” He laughed at this little joke.

I sat up on the mattress. My legs were coated like he said in his semen. At least he had pulled out in time.

“Take off your shirt,” he said.

I obeyed. I wondered why he wanted me shirtless. I thought we were done.

I looked up at him, my gaze curious and pleading with him to leave me alone.

He ignored me.

“Wipe your legs off with your shirt,” he ordered.

Of course.

More humiliation.

I mopped the mess off my legs with my favorite yellow blouse. Correction: My former favorite yellow blouse. I would never wear it again.

He laughed, slapping his thigh as he watched my humiliation unfold.

“You stupid bitch,” he said, once I had finished. “I would have gotten you a towel if you had asked. Now look what you’ve done.”

He approached the bed then, grabbed me by the hair, and forced me to look up at him. He shook me.

“I bought that blouse and you ruined it. You just threw away my money. How are you going to repay me, you dumb bitch?” He shook me a second time and wrenched my hair. I grit my teeth to hold back the cry of pain threatening to tear out of me.

He released me and finished getting dressed.

“We’ll discuss your punishment when I get back,” he said on his way out of the bedroom. “Maybe I’ll sell your computer.”

“Don’t,” I blurted out.

He turned around in the doorway and unleashed his wrath on me.

“What did you say?”

“Don’t,” I repeated. I bowed my head and waited for the blow.

“Listen, bitch,” he said. “Everything in this place is mine, including you and your wheelchair. The day I get tired of you, out you go. Got that?”

I nodded.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you. I said, did you get that?”

“Yes,” I said. Tears welled in my eyes.

“You better.”

He walked out of the bedroom at last. He moved around the apartment for a moment.

“Why the hell are we still getting this prick’s mail?” he called. Judging from the echo, he must have been in the kitchen.

“I’ll return it,” I told him. My voice was hoarse with suppressed tears.

“You’ll keep your ass right here in the apartment. I’ll talk to the landlord about it. This fucking Myers guy. I know he’s a prick. His name screams prick.”

I made no comment. Better to let him get his rant out.

“There’s a letter for you,” he continued. “From New York City. Who the hell do you know in New York City?”

“No one,” I lied. “It’s junk.”

“Junk, huh? Then I’ll throw it away.” Paper ripped.

I bit my bottom lip. I couldn’t scream. I wouldn’t scream. He wanted me to scream so he could get violent again.

He reappeared in the bedroom doorway.

“Here.” He doused me in a shower of confetti. The shredded remains of my letter. The letter from the publisher I had secretly sent my last completed manuscript to.

I couldn’t hold back the tears this time. They rolled down my cheeks.

He saw them and mocked me.

“Oh, boo hoo. You should thank me. It was a rejection letter anyway.”

Of course.

“Consider it punishment for sneaking around behind my back.” He turned and walked out of the apartment. I waited five minutes after he shut the door behind him before I cursed him.