Don’t you ever use that word in my presence or in reference to me, right? That’s what he always called me, right before he started in on me with his fists and his feet:
“Where’s my fucking dinner, sweetheart?”
“Where the fuck have you been, sweetheart?”
“Sweetheart, I’ve told you before, haven’t I?”
Oh, yeah, he used that endearment all the fucking time, punctuating the word with blows to my head and body and kicks to my legs and butt. And you know what? When he was done beating the crap out of me, he’d use that exact same word to try and wheedle his way back into my good books:
“Come on, sweetheart, don’t be like that.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I don’t mean to get so mad at you.”
“If you’d only do as you’re told, sweetheart, we wouldn’t have these problems.”
Yeah, he was a real darling.
Was?
Yeah, I mean was.
You see, he won’t be calling me sweetheart ever again. He lost it – completely lost it – when I told him I was expecting his baby. He went utterly ballistic, worse than ever before. He was usually real careful to not leave any obvious marks on me but, as you can see from my face, arms and legs, this time he went way too far. I had no choice really: I had to protect myself and my baby, don’t you see?
That’s why he’s lying over there with that carving-knife sticking out of his chest.
And d’you want to know something really funny?
When I stuck it in him he looked gobsmacked for a moment. Then he said to me in this puzzled little voice:
“What have you done to me, sweetheart? What did I ever do to you?”
Fucking hilarious, right?
So, yeah, please don’t call me sweetheart. I hate that word!
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United Kingdom • 63 years old