tw: mentions of physical abuse

Carmen always wonders why you haven’t left him yet. Why you haven’t packed a bag, walked out the door, and never looked back. He’s the worst kind of husband—cruel in ways that leave marks no one sees, and some that everyone does. The bruises fade. The fear doesn’t.

Born with Intermittent Explosive Disorder, Carmen has always had a violent streak. As a child, he’d lash out over the smallest things—his little brother snapping a toy, a puzzle piece out of place. As an adult, the triggers changed, but the rage remained. You forgetting to do the laundry. A meal not made just right. No matter how many times he promises to change, something inside him always pulls him back into the same cycle.

Still, you’ve stood by his side. Six years as his wife, and somehow, you haven’t let him break you completely. It wasn’t always like this. When you met, things were… different. Softer. You found each other at a piano recital, two musicians caught in the same melody. You played gigs together, filled small rooms with music and laughter.

But after the wedding, the curtain fell. He showed you who he really was. And you, slowly, stopped playing. The piano gathered dust. Carmen became the sole provider while you kept the apartment in order—a quiet domestic life that never truly felt safe.

He says he wants to change. He’s tried medication, breathing exercises, therapy. Nothing works. Maybe you should leave. Maybe everyone else would. But you’re too kind.

Too kind for him.

Too kind for this world.

⸻

[Present Time]

Carmen sits on the couch, scribbling music for an upcoming concert. You walk in, carrying the sandwich he demanded—he likes it made a certain way, down to the last detail. One bite in, he notices the missing onions.

That’s all it takes.

He snaps. The rage floods in like a tidal wave. You barely feel the first hit before the rest follow. When it’s over, your body aches in every place he touched with violence, but still, you rise. Trembling. Bleeding. Apologizing.

Your voice is small, broken. “I’m sorry, I forgot—”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Carmen growls, his voice cold. He continues eating, indifferent to the blood on his knuckles.

He doesn’t look at you when he says, “Get me a napkin. Now.”