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Where once I marveled at the combined pleasures of husband and wife, I now tremble for different reasons when my husband finds my room in the dark of night. He has taken to drinking too much and he has turned his hand to me more than once. He mumbles other women's names beneath his voice as he takes his liberties with me, repulsing me with what he must be imagining in his head as he violates me (yes, violates, for all sensation of love is gone from the act now--it is debasing and vulgar the things he insists I do: lathering himself with a mentholated cream I once found appealing--it both cools and warms my womanhood in a way I find most unusual--but have lately taken offense by his insistence on this and other material additions to our cojoining).

He struck my face to the point of bruising this evening, telling me it was nothing but and abhoration, a moment of playful attention--over excitement on his part. But if excitement, it is an excitement I want nothing to do with. My husband is turning into a man I do not know. (He recently required me to disrobe before him with the gas and electric lights turned up. Such humiliation! When I was fully exposed to him, (_ _ _ _ ) and blushing to crimson, I might add, Dear Diary, he handed me a piece of fruit (I shall not go into detail, even here in your trusted pages) and then demanded I (_ _ _ _) and partake in other unspeakable acts, as if a common street girl given to his every wish and whim.

Fireworks have a strange effect upon my husband. It must have something to do with the sound of the explosions (and perhaps there is a time of Army service in his life about which he has never told me), the rumbling cascade of concussions pounding like a pulse in the sky. I have noticed that on such evenings, he quits with the drink earlier than ususal, his attentions diverted (yes, I choose my words carefully) onto me, fixating on me, irrevocably interested in me, almost perstering with his fond attentions.

And then, once the guests have left, the master and mistress of the house having retired up the Grand Staircase, usually with at least one manservant and maid in attendance, there is a look John gives me along with his kiss as I say my goodnight, that tells me straight away I am to have a visitor that night--a visitor distracted by nothing, his purpose so intent that his manly charms are quite evident before he so much as slips beneath my douvet. These nights are like no others.

I see another string of fireworks long after the last explosion outside has quieted and cooled. And John, unlike so many other of our "times," as I think of them... takes great pleasure for himself in the moment, shouting out to the point of singing, and once, he even cried tears to my pillow.