Trigger Warning: Sexual Violence
It happened on a Wednesday evening.
He had just left work when he found me.
At that point, I had already lost all hope of someone choosing me.
I'd been forgotten in the same corner of the supermarket for six months.
I had seen many others like me being taken.
But I was still there. Static. Functionless. Just waiting for my turn.
He arrived all well dressed. In an impeccable suit, which didn’t give a hint of the long day of meetings he had just had.
The first thing I noticed was his smile, followed by a charming look, which made my leg tremble.
Amongst so many brands, prices and colours, he chose me.
It was as if from that day my life had a meaning, a purpose.
It was a small, but super-cozy apartment.
At that same night, I met her.
She smiled at me and thanked her husband for taking me home.
From that point on, every day was a party.
I got to know the three rooms of the apartment better than anyone else.
I attended birthday parties, dinners with friends, and even a Christmas dinner, with the whole family gathered.
Between the dust under the couch and a few breadcrumbs from breakfast, I began to realize that glasses were breaking with some frequency.
Nothing too unusual from a clumsy family.
They were just glasses after all.
Quickly replaced by the husband, who kept his enchanting smile every time he arrived home. Always at the end of the day.
His wife, on the other hand, didn't smile so often.
I’ve witnessed a few sobs here and there, always when he wasn’t there.
I’ve also witnessed her losing her temper over random simple things.
She was always agitated, confused.
She got used to sleeping a lot in the afternoons, as if she had been up most of the night.
I’ve always wanted to say something, but I actually had nothing to complain about.
My life was much better than the frozen old days in the supermarket.
Until that Monday evening.
I noticed something odd going on in the kitchen.
He had never come to get me in the pantry. Especially at that hour.
This time, with no enchanting smile on his face, he abruptly picked me up and took me to their room, where I saw her.
She was crying compulsively, curled up on their bed.
I didn't understand why I was there, but I was scared.
He brought me next to her.
Driven by rage far greater than those 40 or 50 sqm that I had to come to know so well.
She screamed in pain.
The movement was repeated several times.
I couldn’t say how many.
I got in. And out.
In. And out.
In. And out.
A cry for help echoed through the apartment, hoping that someone would put an end to that.
As if I had any control over what was going on.
It was all too fast.
A few minutes later, she stopped crying.
The same way I used to be on those endless nights at the supermarket.
It wasn't long before I was back in the pantry.
On the following day, I met her again.
He was going to have some work colleagues over for dinner.
And the house needed to be impeccable.
She stopped crying at 8 PM, when he opened the door.
Lighting up the entire place with his enchanting smile.
Sometimes, the only witness cannot speak for you.