11

Our honeymoon was a disaster. We fucked every time we fought. We danced every time we did something wrong to the other. It was the first release of toxic substances into the atmosphere, ready to really affect us in seventy-two days.

Every time it became more disastrous, he bought me an item made out of silver or gold, whatever I wished. And even though part of the reason I married him was for his wealth, I also craved his attention desperately. I craved his love. I was a dumbass back then, such a blonde. I'm glad it's brown now. I'm not stupid like I was then.

The night of the fifth day of the honeymoon, as we laid down on our king-sized bed in Hawaii – me awake, him asleep - I was traumatized. It was the first time my husband bullied me, downgraded me. He forced me on the bed and stripped me down in a quick second. I told him no multiple times but that just made him angrier. He wouldn't let me go even though I refused. I wanted to stop him but I knew he would hurt me even more if I tried further. So I let him do it. I allowed my husband to sexually assault me.

That's why I tried to stab his neck with a pocketknife I found at the beach while he was asleep. It was my first attempt to kill my husband. But before I could plunge it inside his thick skin, the door opened and I turned in shock.

At the door stood my husband, astonished by my position. I looked down at the body beneath me and there was nothing, no one. It vanished. It disappeared. And I woke up from my dream.

In reality, my husband was still atop me, continuing his forced form of pleasure.

I wanted to escape this scene, this moment. That's why I dreamt for a moment. That's why I dreamt of killing my husband.

Even though it was a dream, I still count it as my first attempt, my first thought of committing murder. It felt good to think about it; I felt free.

But I also felt like I wanted to die.

I felt like I was suffering in hell.