The Tyrant's Trophy

Maybell

My mother once gave me very wise advice. She told me not all men were prince charming. Some men came disguised as frogs and other men, as princes. “Go for the frogs.” She told me.

It was a gift she shared with me the night before my first date with Phil. The night was humid and I remember whining about my hair; how frizzy it was and that it needed to be perfect for the night with my prince. My mother wasn’t all that fond of Phil or many men who wished for my hand. Of course, she wouldn’t hold me back from making my own decisions, but not without warnings.

She was smart that way.

I wish I had listened.

Funny how children think they know best until they grow old. Then they come to a place where they mourn the loss of wisdom that was once given to them.

It’s been a good two weeks since I started this bartending job. I’m grateful for it, though I still don’t know exactly how it came to be that I’ve landed this gig. The security is tight here too, something I'm immensely relieved over that. The more time I spend away from my husband, I’m forced to reflect on the life I lived with him.

How he beat me… raped me and…what he did to our child. Most times I want to close my mind and pretend it never happened. That I’m fine and my husband didn’t do those things to me because he can’t be a monster.

A woman came to the bar and sat down as I wiped the counter. She was a sight. Unshockingly, the woman was tall (the majority of people are taller than me.) and she was a natural beauty with slight freckles and a waned smile.

“Oh,” I said, awkwardly. “Ummm… what can I get for you?”

“I’ll take the house white wine.” Her makeup was light but well done. It made her look like royalty but despite that, she seemed tired - worn out and sad.

She looked exactly how I felt.

“Alright.” I walked over to the white wine and became slightly lost as I searched through all the brands. I still wasn’t sure what wines were the best sellers in this place. I just felt too embarrassed to ask for help.

The woman seemed to sense this. “The house is Velasco.” She didn’t sound amused.

“Oh, thank you.” Unable to hide my blush, I grabbed it and walked back with the bottle as well as a wine glass.

“No problem.”

Hearing what the brand was, I couldn’t help the bitter chuckle that escaped my lips. “This is my husband’s favorite brand,” I told the girl as I filled the glass. “Only he drinks the red wine.” And here I was, hoping for a distraction from my situation.

I passed her the glass with a napkin under it.

I didn’t expect her to carry on the conversation. The girl seemed to have wanted to be by herself. She wore that vibe that said, ‘leave me alone to drink my sorrows away.’ So it stunned me when she responded back. “Red wine is okay, but I prefer white; that goes for any brand. My husband doesn’t drink wine at all; he’s more of a scotch person.”

And what surprised me was that I wanted to talk for a change. I wanted to snatch any chance of my side of things being told for a change. So before I could stop myself, I responded, “I’m not too fond of alcohol.” Which is really ironic, considering serving it is now my job.

The woman snickered a bit. “I wasn’t either, but I learned to get used to it with all the parties and social events my husband has to go to. You’re kind of expected to have a glass or two, especially when making a toast.”

“That’s unfortunate.” I continued wiping the counter and tidying up. Truly, having to drink detestable things such as liquors is a complete nightmare in my book. It’s one of the top things that got Phil ‘in the mood.’ “What kind of job does your husband do?”

When she didn’t answer, I glanced up at her. She looked flabbergasted for a good two seconds and I feared that I crossed some sort of line. She gave me that look so many people bestowed on me in my husband’s line of work: that I was crazy.

Hating that look, I glanced away. “I’m sorry.” I felt my heart race from painful memories surfacing. This ball of anger begged to ride up but I swallowed it down. I was afraid of it. I decided then that it might be best to end this conversation with the stranger but said woman had other plans.

“You’re new, aren’t you?” She asked me.

I had to breathe in and out slowly to calm my nerves. Forcing out my best smile, I laughed the panic away. “Is it that obvious?” Her eyes told me ‘yes.’ Staring back down, I wanted to kick myself. I’m such a loser. Can’t even do this job right? Why can’t I get it together? “What am I doing wrong?”

What did I do wrong to make Phil hate me?

For my baby to…just what could I have done to change things?

“Hey, it’s ok.” the girl patted my hand. I hadn’t noticed I was scrubbing the counter roughly now or that my sleeve rose up a bit, showcasing the scars my ‘loving’ husband inflicted on me. These were the injuries he convinced his coworkers were self-inflicted. The very injuries that dubbed me the psycho.

Blinking, I dropped the rag as if it burned me. The lady saw them, I know she did but she looked to understand. Not everything because how could someone understand what I’m going through? However, her face told me she did understand.

Carefully, almost softly, she touched on the topic of marriage. “Marriage is a rollercoaster, isn’t it?” She gestured for me to sit with her but I didn’t. She bit her lip, deciding whether or not to venture on this topic. Sipping her wine, she pressed in. “Why was marriage ever made? All it does is bring heartache. I wish I never fell in love.”

I couldn’t argue with that, though it saddened me to hear someone else say that. Love was something I dreamt of since I was little; the kind of love seen in fairy tales where the girl with nothing, who stays kind and sweet gets a happy ending in the end. Maybe a part of me still wants that…even if it’s for someone else.

I let her talk. “The man I married, I’m crazy about, but he has too many issues to feel safe with. I find myself wanting to be near him and kiss him and hold him. At the same time, I’m angry with him - no - hurt. He kept me in the dark about a lot of things and I thought we were fine. He recently told me he’s getting help with those issues and I thought I would be happy but…I just don’t know where we stand.”

“He’s getting help? As in, therapy?” She nodded.

I pondered that for a moment. Her husband sounded close to mine, but then nothing like mine. Phil is a prince who refuses to be a frog. “Your husband sounds like a frog.” It wasn’t meant to be an insult. Shaking my head at my poor wording, I elaborated. “Marriage is a compromise. It’s about accepting each other’s flaws and burdens, even before you see them.” Especially if the frog is working to be a prince.

The girl looked down. “But there are some burdens you shouldn’t have to deal with,” she said, taking another sip of wine.

“You’re not wrong,” I agreed, thinking back to my relationship. I shouldn’t have put up with Phil’s tantrums or the lies he spread about me. “Some compromises shouldn’t be made but, and forgive my intrusion, your husband is working on his problems. From what you say, he’s taking the steps necessary to be your prince charming again.” Smiling bitterly, I added, “trust me, if a man tears down his own ego-inflated kingdom for you, then doesn’t that show you mean the world to him?”

My shift was almost over and Abijah would be here soon to pick me up. Putting the wine bottle away and making sure my stuff under the counter was accounted for, I gave her the gift my mother once gave me. “God wraps gifts in very unconventional paper. Some men look like prince charming but they are beasts. Other men are frogs but deep down, they are the true princes. Your husband is a frog and his actions speak louder than what you hear.” For the first time, I felt oddly happy for the girl sitting in front of me, but also envious of her.

“My husband was always a prince.” I could see Abijah walk through the entrance. She stopped when she saw me and the girl talking and stood back. “He won’t change for me or any other girl I believe. Trust me, I wish I had fallen for a frog over him. It doesn’t excuse whatever your husband did or if you should even forgive him. But,” I struggled to find the words. “That love you two have sounds like the type many of us girls dream of: honest.”

Saying what I felt I needed to say, I gathered my things and wished her a good night. Before walking away, however, the lady stopped me and asked for my name. “Maybell.” I had to force out the last name. “Sweetheart.”

I waved goodbye and walked out with Abijah.

I think I needed that conversation. I sighed a bit as we got in the car. It's funny how God does work: how a simple conversation with a stranger could help lift my soul from the depths of insanity. One thing was clear now: My husband was a monster to me and he did his best to break me.

I think I can accept that now.

Admit it to myself.

Now, I want to get help too, and move on with my life. “Abijah.”

“Hmm?”

“Do you still have that group leader’s number?”

When we got to the condos, Chad was waiting for me in the halls. He was tense; his jaw was taunted and his expression was stony. It freaked me out actually but when he saw us approaching, his demeanor changed.

“Maybell.” His voice croaked out, tired. His shoulders slumped and he met Abijah and me halfway down the hall. “How was work?” I had kind of vented to him the day before about how inadequate I felt on the job and that Aaron was sure to fire me anytime now. “Did you have a better day?”

Since his promise, he’s asked about my day every day; if I had a good day. If I was up for food. If I had a good night’s rest. He even asked about my mother back home and what kind of plants she grew on her land. Chad always listened - he’ll take time out of his day to just talk with me. It’s become something I look forward to very much.

“It was a great day.” I shrugged a little, thinking back fondly to the woman at the bar. “Thank you, Chad.” Eyeing down, I finally realized he was carrying a shoebox; one that I recognized all too well.