From Bruised to Ruthless, A Wife’s Revenge Guide - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
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The third time I filed for divorce, my husband snapped. He beat me so badly he broke two of my ribs.
After two weeks in the hospital, I came home to a chorus of well-meaning neighbors. "Couples shouldn’t stay angry overnight," they said. "It’s tough for a man out there—you should be more understanding."
I smiled and nodded. "You’re right. My husband is my world. I should stand by him."
So I played the perfect, obedient wife—waiting on him hand and foot. And wouldn’t you know it? Within months, he was rolling in cash. Suddenly, those same relatives and neighbors who’d preached patience were squirming in their seats.
When I filed for divorce again, my husband dropped to his knees in court, begging me to stay. He even dragged our two-year-old daughter into it, sobbing that without me, they’d both be lost.
The judge—despite the thick stack of medical reports and police records I handed over—declared our marriage "salvageable" and threw out the case.
That night, my husband grabbed me by the throat like a rabid dog and slammed me into the wall. Even as I crumpled to the floor, blood dripping from my head, he kept going—fists, kicks, spit flying with every word.
"You stupid bitch! I told you—never. Mention. Divorce. Again!"
"You think you can take me to court?!"
Each punch landed with a sickening thud.
Our daughter, too young to understand, only heard my muffled cries from the bedroom. She banged on the door, wailing, "Daddy, stop! Don’t hurt Mommy!"
Her screams only pissed him off more. He yanked her into the room and threw her at my feet.
"Ava," he hissed, "if you ever talk about leaving again, I’ll kill her right in front of you."
I clutched our sobbing daughter to my chest as the neighbors, drawn by the noise, started gathering outside.
Seeing an audience, my husband switched gears—slapping himself, bawling, "I’m sorry, baby! I had too much to drink… I can’t live without you and Chloe!"
The neighbors ate it up. "A man’s pride is in his knees," one tutted. "He’s begging—how can you be so heartless? Do you want to destroy this family?"
Soon, half the damn neighborhood had crammed into our living room, clucking their tongues at him—the poor, remorseful husband—while I, the one bleeding on the floor, got the side-eye.
"Jack, you shouldn’t have hit her that hard…"
"Men don’t know their own strength, especially after a few drinks."
"Just rest up, dear. When you’re better, behave yourself. If you didn’t push his buttons, he wouldn’t have to hit you, right?"
Ha. Unbelievable.
Somehow, I was the villain.
By now, even my own parents couldn’t be bothered to visit me in the hospital.
In this twisted game of marriage, I was the only one fighting—while the whole world stood on his side.
The message was clear: Take the beatings. Don’t fight back. Don’t even think about running.
Or else you’re the selfish one. You’re the one airing dirty laundry.
After two weeks in the hospital, I came home to a chorus of well-meaning neighbors. "Couples shouldn’t stay angry overnight," they said. "It’s tough for a man out there—you should be more understanding."
I smiled and nodded. "You’re right. My husband is my world. I should stand by him."
So I played the perfect, obedient wife—waiting on him hand and foot. And wouldn’t you know it? Within months, he was rolling in cash. Suddenly, those same relatives and neighbors who’d preached patience were squirming in their seats.
When I filed for divorce again, my husband dropped to his knees in court, begging me to stay. He even dragged our two-year-old daughter into it, sobbing that without me, they’d both be lost.
The judge—despite the thick stack of medical reports and police records I handed over—declared our marriage "salvageable" and threw out the case.
That night, my husband grabbed me by the throat like a rabid dog and slammed me into the wall. Even as I crumpled to the floor, blood dripping from my head, he kept going—fists, kicks, spit flying with every word.
"You stupid bitch! I told you—never. Mention. Divorce. Again!"
"You think you can take me to court?!"
Each punch landed with a sickening thud.
Our daughter, too young to understand, only heard my muffled cries from the bedroom. She banged on the door, wailing, "Daddy, stop! Don’t hurt Mommy!"
Her screams only pissed him off more. He yanked her into the room and threw her at my feet.
"Ava," he hissed, "if you ever talk about leaving again, I’ll kill her right in front of you."
I clutched our sobbing daughter to my chest as the neighbors, drawn by the noise, started gathering outside.
Seeing an audience, my husband switched gears—slapping himself, bawling, "I’m sorry, baby! I had too much to drink… I can’t live without you and Chloe!"
The neighbors ate it up. "A man’s pride is in his knees," one tutted. "He’s begging—how can you be so heartless? Do you want to destroy this family?"
Soon, half the damn neighborhood had crammed into our living room, clucking their tongues at him—the poor, remorseful husband—while I, the one bleeding on the floor, got the side-eye.
"Jack, you shouldn’t have hit her that hard…"
"Men don’t know their own strength, especially after a few drinks."
"Just rest up, dear. When you’re better, behave yourself. If you didn’t push his buttons, he wouldn’t have to hit you, right?"
Ha. Unbelievable.
Somehow, I was the villain.
By now, even my own parents couldn’t be bothered to visit me in the hospital.
In this twisted game of marriage, I was the only one fighting—while the whole world stood on his side.
The message was clear: Take the beatings. Don’t fight back. Don’t even think about running.
Or else you’re the selfish one. You’re the one airing dirty laundry.
End of From Bruised to Ruthless, A Wife’s Revenge Guide Chapter 1. Continue reading Chapter 2 or return to From Bruised to Ruthless, A Wife’s Revenge Guide book page.