Devil You Know

OBEDIENCE

JANE

BEING A woman can be such a contradiction. We're told to be independent, strong, and self-assured, yet we're shepherded by those same people toward a preconceived ideal of happiness. We're encouraged to 'find the one', 'settle down' and 'raise a family.' We're encouraged to submit and obey, and to set aside any dreams we may have had for ourselves in the name of putting everybody else in our lives first. For some women this works, but for others it's a struggle to find that balance between what a woman 'should be' and what we long to be. Women who break that norm, who fight against the mold, are spoken about in hushed whispers behind soft, manicured hands of ladies at the school gates. They're cut down and belittled by the very people who are supposed to support their decision to break free—women who secretly long to do the same. Society portrays a 'woman' as a loving, nurturing soul. Yet the harsh reality is they can often be more vindictive, more manipulating, and more conniving than men.

And men know this.

It's why some of them choose to place their 'woman' in the box she belongs in from day one. They cut her down, strip her of confidence and shape her into the perfect servant. Whether in fear of her strength, or out of some ingrained habit passed down from generation to generation, I don't know. I just know my husband is one of the men who lives the old-school belief that his wife exists first and foremost to serve his every need.

And he reminds me of it often.

See, I don't think Dylan was raised to be an arrogant, chauvinistic animal. His parents never neglected him, and it wasn't that the other kids bullied him until he became what he is out of self-preservation.

No.

I know for a fact he was born this way.

Picture a scene from a horror movie; the doctor wipes a shaky hand across his brow, and pulls a screaming, red-faced baby from between the legs of a woman who is staring at the white light above.

Yeah, that was the day my husband was born.

I'm sure Satan smoked a cigar to celebrate.

So why did I marry him, you say? Fucked if I know. Once upon a time I was naive, stupid, young, the list goes on . . . Once upon a time he was charming, thoughtful, and blow me down—he actually laughed.

We were young then.

Now? We're . . . married.

He's what he thinks every man should be: controlling, demanding, and always right.

I'm what keeps me alive: quiet, dutiful, and non-objectionable.

He asks—I do.

It's a simple arrangement. And one that works for us.

I could dream of another life; one where I'm happily watering the roses while my children play. My darling husband pulls our family sedan into the driveway, and produces a random gift for 'his lovely wife'. I smile, he laughs, we all hold each other, and life is perfect.

But what good would that do?

Remind me of what a shit-hole I'm stuck in, and make my already tedious days more miserable? It's easier to compartmentalize and forget. It's better not to cry.

To cry is to show weakness, and this liar gets off on my weakness.

The answer's always so simple—'speak up', 'search for help'. It sounds so damn easy in theory, but the thing I can't fathom is, how the hell do I do that when nobody cares to listen? My so-called colleagues at work pass me by on a daily basis like I'm no more than an annoying health and safety poster; everyone knows it's there, but they gave up paying attention long ago.