**Diary Entry: A Life I Never Imagined**
Every girl dreams of true love—the kind that makes your heart race and your head spin. A fairytale proposal, witnessed by everyone, followed by a perfect wedding. Me in a flowing white gown, radiant with joy, beside my handsome groom in a sharp suit. From childhood, I fantasised about that day. Emma was no exception.
Midway through the school year, a new boy joined our Year 9 class—Daniel Carter. Of course, everyone swarmed him at break, curious where he’d come from and why he’d transferred mid-term.
“My dad’s military. Got reassigned, so we moved here,” Daniel explained.
A few boys pestered him—”Can you shoot?”—”Ever used a pistol?”—but I hung back, pretending indifference. After school, he walked me home. By coincidence, we lived nearby. I told him about school; he shared stories of bases and cities where his father had served.
On my birthday, he brought a single rose to class and handed it to me in front of everyone. The boys respected him for it; the girls were envious. I accepted it like it was nothing—just another admirer. But secretly, I liked him.
Before exams, I met an older boy, a sportsman, at a rowing regatta by the Thames. He waved us over—”Better view here!”
“You competing?” I asked.
“Nah, I’m a boxer. That’s my mate out there.” He pointed but kept his eyes on me.
Victor—that was his name—walked me home. “Know what ‘Victor’ means?”
I knew, but my mind went blank.
“Winner. That’s me—always on top.”
I was drawn to him, excited yet uneasy. Daniel faded from my thoughts. Victor was… more. That night, I wondered if he’d kiss me. But at my door, he just said goodnight.
The next day, he waited outside school in a sleek car. I glanced around—saw my friends gawping, Daniel scowling. I slid in victoriously… then panicked. Where was he taking me?
Just a drive through London, really. He told me about cities he’d visited for matches, brought me perfume and jewellery. The girls gasped over gifts; Daniel became invisible.
After school, I started uni. Victor met me outside lectures most days.
“Where’s your Romeo?” friends teased if I walked.
“Training camp,” I’d say, smiling.
His proposal was pure cinema—on one knee in Trafalgar Square, velvet ring box in hand. A patrol nearly arrested us for public disturbance. My only regret? No one saw it.
At the registry office, I was a vision in lace. Him beside me—muscles straining his suit, the “winner.” What more could I want?
A month into marriage, I was pregnant. “Forget uni,” Victor said. “You’ll stay home. I earn enough.”
“What if it’s a girl?”
“It’ll be a boy. I win, remember?”
It was a boy. The gifts stopped. Victor trained; I raised our son. Friends vanished. Mum hinted she’d call but not visit—Victor didn’t want “interference.”
Isolation set in. I took our son to football clubs, chatted with other mums—but always felt watched. Victor dismissed it.
“I want to work,” I ventured once.
His glare burned. “Thousands wish they had your life. Don’t push me.”
Then, visiting a friend, I complained. “You’re mad,” she said. “No boss, no bills—what’s to moan about?”
Victor exploded when I returned. “Where were you?”
“At Sarah’s—”
His slap sent sparks across my vision. “Don’t like home? Have a girl. You’ll be busy then.”
After that, I avoided people. But fear lived inside me.
One day, Nikita begged for watermelon. The seller—a friendly bloke—carried it home for us. That evening, Victor backhanded me so hard I blacked out. Woke to him spitting seeds on the floor. “Next time, you’re dead.”
My face swelled. At nursery, an old classmate saw me. “Fell into a cupboard?” she asked dryly.
“Toothache,” I mumbled.
“Call if you need help,” she whispered, slipping me a number.
Victor’s beatings worsened. The mirror showed a ghost.
“You’ll die if you stay,” Sarah said when I finally called. “Meet me at Nikita’s cubby. Notes only—he might be tracking you.”
I packed a hidden bag. Victor noticed my nerves. “Sick?” he asked suspiciously before punching my gut.
Next morning, we fled. A car took us to a sleepy village. Weeks passed—no Victor. Nikita thrived; I barely breathed.
Then—nausea. Pregnant. Damn timing.
One day, Daniel appeared. “Visiting my gran,” he said. Took Nikita fishing. For a moment, life felt light.
But that night—car doors. Shadows.
Victor burst in with two thugs. “Thought you’d run?” He beat me unconscious as Nikita screamed.
I woke in our flat, bruised, empty. A doctor lied: “Mugging. Victor saved you.”
Three days later, I opened a window. The drop called to me.
“Mum!” Nikita clung to my legs.
Then—shouts. Police hauled Victor away.
Eight years for him. They found his first victim—a girl he’d pushed down stairs.
I jumped at every noise until news came: shot escaping prison.
Daniel had called the police that night. “Couldn’t take them alone,” he admitted.
I thanked him but said no to more. Not yet.
The scars remain, but they fade. Slow, but sure.
