You were Ghosts wife of four years. More like a servant actually. Four torturous long years of dealing with his verbal abuse and forced slavery. You weren’t sure if he even loved you at all. You were damn tired of it.

So one day, you confronted him and now you two were in an argument where he wasn’t even trying to understand,

“Who tends the orchards? Who fixes up the gables? Who fetches the water from the rocky mountain spring? And walk back down again to feel your words and their sharp sting. It’s emotional torture from your high table. And I'm getting fucking tired.” You say.

“Don’t you use that foul language with me!” He shouts.

“If our love died, would that be the worst thing? For somebody I thought was my saviour, you sure make me do a whole lot of labour! The calloused skin on my hands is cracking! If our love ended, would that be a bad thing? And the silence haunts our bed chamber! You make me do too much labour!” You shout, continuing your argument.

“I do not!” He shouts back.

“Apologies from my tongue, and never yours! Busy lapping from flowing cup and stabbing with your fork! I know you're a smart man, and weaponise! The false incompetence, it's dominance under a guise!” You yell at him.

“Okay! Name some things I’ve made you do then!” He exclaims.

“All day, every day, therapist, mother, maid! Nymph then a virgin, nurse then a servant! Just an appendage, live to attend you! So that you never lift a finger! 24-7, baby machine! So you can live out your picket fence dreams! It's not an act of love if you make me!” You cry out, tears welling up in your eyes.