Volkov and all that that entailed, and would hardly hinder myself in doing so. We married just before my twenty-third birthday, and I could not have adapted better to my new place as his wife.
“At first our new life together was blissful, but I quickly became wary of the man that I loved.”
Here, Mrs. Volkov rises and moves to the window, as if seeking answers out of doors. I am surprised to note a single tear, streaming down her cheek. As if offended by it, she rubs it quickly away, then smoothes her dress. “And what happened then, Mrs. Volkov?” I ask, eager. She sighs; delicate readers will now wish to turn away.
“H-he beat me, when I did not do as he wished, or when I spoke out of turn. And not gently, quietly, as is a man’s right. He whipped
me, once, violently, and my back bears the scars that will prove it. He raped me, too, and often. After all, who would willingly
make love to someone so cruel? When... when I thought we could be happy, when I conceived his child—and so certain was I that it would be a son!—he, for some reason, flew into a rage
. He hit me, harder, with his closed fists as never before, and then he pushed me down the stairs. Our stairs were quite steep.
“By some miracle I survived, but I did lose our child.” Mrs. Volkov is sobbing readily now, and has sunk back into her chair. I urge her forward.
“There was little more I could do,” she offers, barely a whisper. “He had kept me locked in our... in his
home for so long that I was no longer sure what the world was like. When I got the opportunity—at a wedding, it must have been—I disapparated, and turned up here
.” She gestures around the room, indicating her brother’s home. “I could not bear to relive the horrors that I had experienced. So I... I lied.”
Mrs. Volkov excuses herself, and retires to her room.
Written by Yente Ventus