Only, the happiness never comes. The happy marriage isn't a reality, it's just a fantasy that won't come true. You've been married for fifteen years now, because blackmail is a terrible thing. Because when the son of a senator asks you to marry him, with a gun to your head and a knife at your throat, you can't say no. Because he's got friends in high places. He knows how to get to you. And to prove this, he gets your parents killed, so that he is all you have.
It's an abusive relationship by the true definition. You're not allowed to leave the house, but when you are, it's on his arm, dressed up like a high class escort, so that you can get other women to take home. Where he fucks the other woman while you watch, and he berates you about how you'll never be as hot and tight as this woman (or any other woman that he fucks) ever again. Because that day he raped you in college, it wasn't really rape, you see. You were asking for it, dressed like that, your breasts out on display, the short dress, the high heels. You were begging for a man like him to fuck you, to take you, to claim you.
He tells you this all the time, and he makes you agree. When you don't agree, he hits you. Hard. Of course it's never where anyone can see, it's always hidden by clothing. Never to touch the face, because you're a trophy wife. You're his ultimate proof of the power that he has. That you know all his secrets, how he had his father killed to take over his Senate seat, how he had your parents killed to get control over you. You're nothing without him. And every night, he fucks you. He rapes you as you cry, begging him to stop, and the more you beg him to stop, the harder he goes, fucking you until you're raw, until you swear you're bleeding. He tells you that you are his. No one else's.
He always gets what he wants. You can't have anyone else.
Through the years, he makes you change yourself. Get bigger breasts. Workout all the time. Get plastic surgery. You're now unrecognizable, you look nothing like your former self. Which is fitting, because you feel that the Faith you knew died years ago.
Everyday and every night is always the same, until one day, it's not. You're throwing up in the morning, you feel horrible. You get his mistress who lives with you both to give you a pregnancy test. She's stuck here just as much as you are, and she's the only friend you have now. All your other friends or family have left you out of disgust, or died. You're alone.
The pregnancy test tells you what you've feared: you're pregnant with his child. The man who forced you into marriage, the man who rapes you every night, the man who has made your life a living hell.
It's a lonely existence, but you can't imagine bringing a child into this world if it means nothing but pain. If it means more horrors, more abuse, more reason for him to control you.
You know where he keeps his guns. In his office, in the safe and you know the combination. How can you forget it? Most people use a date important to them. The date he uses? June 11, 2000. The day he first raped you.
You get him drunk and he passes out, his mistress next to him in bed. You've told her the plan, and she's agreed to it. She's taken her sleeping pills--way past the amount she should have, and slipped him one in his drink before she went under. She's asleep and on her way out, and it's with a small smile on her face.
With them sleeping, you slip into his office and you type in the combination. You grab the gun and load it with six bullets, but you're only going to need three. You grab his silencer, and put it on. You don't know much these days, but you do remember how to use a gun.
As you walk back into the bedroom, you kiss the mistress, the closest thing to a friend that you have left, on the forehead. She's not breathing, and you thank god that she went out her way.
You put the barrel of the gun to his forehead, and start to taunt him. He groggily wakes up, slowly opening his eyes the best that he can, still under the sleeping pills. When he realizes you have his gun to his head, he starts to scream. Good. You want him to.
One shot and he's dead. Part of the horror is over but the rest...is up to you.
He's dead and you could go on, but years of abuse have taken its toll. There is no real life here for you. And this child in you, his child...there is no way of knowing if it will turn out like him or not, but it's not a chance you can take.
Six bullets were loaded, you only needed three. You have two more.
You shoot yourself directly in the stomach, dropping to the floor in pain, sobbing out. You're bleeding out fast, and you've dropped the gun when you fell. You have to finish this, and you inch to the gun, your fingers grabbing it, and with weak and shaky hands you bring it to your temple.
And you pull the trigger, ending it all.
You wake up with a start, screaming, immediately grabbing your stomach to check if you're bleeding, and then check where you are. Your penthouse. Your real home. Heart beating fast, you're alive, you're safe. It's then that you turn and see your boyfriend lying next to you in the bed, and flowers on the bedside table. Next to that is your phone, that says the date. It's 48 hours later than you remember, and you immediately turn to him sleeping next to you.
You try to wake him up, to get him to talk to you, but he's not budging. He's not waking up, and you start to cry. He's the reason that what you dreamed isn't real, that you realized you are worth more than you ever thought you were, and you were not about to lose him now.
After an hour of trying everything that you can think of, you make a pot of coffee and you settle back in the bed, sitting cross legged and you rest a pillow in your lap and gingerly move him into it. And you watch him, you check his breathing, you wait.
You take care of him, as you can tell he took care of you, and you hope he wakes up. Because you don't want to remember what life would have been like without him.