I was a businessman. Life was stable, everything in order. Then came my arranged marriage—with a girl stranger than anyone I had ever known. I thought my life would finally improve, but perhaps she never wanted that.
She was twenty-five, about the same age as me, yet her presence felt alien. On our wedding night, I entered the room expecting to see her waiting in her bridal gown, shy and radiant. Instead, the gown had been carefully folded away, the jewelry neatly placed on the table. The room was empty.
Moments later, she stepped out of the bathroom, drying her hair with a towel. My breath caught when I realized—she wore a wig. Her real hair was cropped so short it couldn't even be tied into a braid. She wasn't in bridal dress either. She had casually slipped into my clothes. One question echoed in my mind: Why?
She tossed the towel onto the couch. When I asked her to put it in its proper place, she replied calmly, "I brought it here. I'll leave it here. That's my responsibility." I fell silent.
Whenever I tried to move close, she would push me away. She never let me near. Stubborn, always absorbed in her own world, she would leave the house every morning before I even woke up. We lived far from the city because I preferred quiet places—but quiet was never what she gave me.
I spent a whole year with her, and not once did she share the same bed. On the very first night, she told me plainly: "I don't consider you my husband. I will never use your money."
I never saw her in a gown, jewelry, or makeup—except when I begged her to accompany me to business parties. She would refuse at first, saying she would not "play wife." Only after much persuasion did she relent, and then—before others—her act was flawless. We looked like the happiest couple in the room. She was radiant when she chose to be.
But at home, it was different. If I told her not to do something, she would deliberately do it. Once, I warned her never to go out at night because the nearby forest was dangerous. She said nothing. That very night, I returned to find her missing. When she came back, she said casually, "I went to the forest. I was bored." Then she slipped off her shirt and walked into the bathroom without another word.
Her defiance shocked me, but her strength terrified me more. One day, I caught her off guard and asked, "What price will you take to seduce me?" Her reaction was brutal. Without hesitation, she rammed her elbow into my ribs, then struck me with a punch. Her eyes blazed as she warned, "Think a hundred times before you come near me again. That was just a demo."
She was unpredictable. Some days she cooked and managed the whole house with ease. Other days she returned later than me. She never shopped, never wasted money, but she collected weapons—antique knives, strange gadgets, blades from foreign lands. Her hobbies were as strange as her soul.
Marriage brings peace to most lives. Mine became a live-action thriller.
One morning, she was making an omelet. I leaned against the fridge, watching her. She noticed and asked, "Should I make one for you too?" I smiled, teasing, "That's how a good wife should be."
Something snapped inside her. In sudden fury, she smashed the bowl into the sink. "Do it yourself," she shouted.
My own temper flared. I grabbed her hand, forcing my voice low. "I've been patient with you. Don't think I can't do anything just because I'm going easy. If I want, I can set your mind straight right now."
She pulled back, eyes burning, glaring at me as if she might devour me alive…
"Touch me if you dare. I'll kill you if you utter another word of nonsense."She threw her coat over her shoulders, picked up her purse, and left without another glance.
I stood frozen, unsettled. Her rebellious spirit was unlike anything I had ever encountered. She didn't follow trends, never idolized anyone. Whatever she admired in others, she achieved on her own. She cared nothing for makeup—her passion lay in bodybuilding, fighting, and shooting. In her strangeness lay her beauty.
She never accepted help, never touched my money. Whatever she earned, she spent on herself. If I offered assistance, she would brush me off: "I don't need anyone's help. I like doing things alone."
In winter, she would walk around without a sweater or jacket, windows open, sometimes the air conditioner running in the dead of night. She hated occasions, but loved silence. She never allowed herself to be completely bare—always double layers, always guarded.
Then one night she came home drunk. Not unconscious, but unsteady. She could still speak, but could not hold herself upright. Managing her that night was exhausting. Yet, strangely, she laughed more than ever before. I had never seen her laugh like that.
And perhaps… it was then I realized I had fallen for her. Somewhere between our arguments and her defiance, I had begun to love her. I even found joy in teasing her, in fighting with her. But she hated love, hated romance, despised marriage itself.
That night, half-drunk, I asked her why she never accepted me as her husband. She laughed, eyes glassy, and said, "Because I don't want a husband. I don't want a boyfriend. I just want a friend—a best friend who can understand me."
I asked, "Then why did you marry me at all?"Still smiling, she replied, "To run away from my family. Otherwise, they would have killed me under the weight of this society's rules."
In that moment, I realized how selfish I had been. She wasn't strange—she was lonely. All she wanted was understanding, not possession.
Later that night, I escorted her to her room. She stumbled in and, without hesitation, pulled off her shirt. I was about to leave when my steps froze. Underneath her inner shirt, as she lifted it, I caught sight of the scars across her waist—marks hidden beneath the dragon tattoo. Belt scars. And not just there. Her body carried countless cuts, deep and brutal.
I was shaken. For the first time, I understood—she wasn't just rebellious; she was someone who had lived through unspeakable pain, someone harsh not only with the world but with herself.
I left quietly. That night, I couldn't sleep.
By morning, she was up before me, calm and serious, as though nothing had happened. When I asked, "Do you want a divorce?" she answered without hesitation: "Yes."
I was stunned, but then asked, "Do you remember what happened last night?"
She cut me off: "Yes. I drank too much. Maybe I did something weird."Her tone was flat, normal, unaffected—as if those scars had never existed.
I didn't press further. What more could I say? All I managed was: "I'll make the arrangements. We'll get divorced."
Within days, all arrangements were complete. Through the court we finalized our divorce. She kept it secret, not wanting her family to know.
As we stepped out of the courthouse, for the first time sober, she smiled at me. "Coffee?" she asked. I didn't refuse.
At the café, I asked, "What will you do now?"
She replied with a calm brightness, "Today I feel happy. Free. I've never felt so free before. I don't know where I'll go, but I'll finally claim myself fully. I want to live my life alone."
Up to that point her words made sense. But then she added something that unsettled me deeply:
"One day I'll die alone in my house. No one will know. Worms will eat what's left, and the world will forget I ever existed."
She smiled as she said it. For a moment I thought she was insane. Who imagines such a painful death for themselves? Yet I realized she truly had that kind of strength.
That day became the last, and most unforgettable, memory of her. For the first and only time sober, she treated me like a friend. And then… she left. Disappeared from my life.
She was a storm—chaotic, destructive, unforgettable. Her absence was unbearable. Strange as she was, she had at least distracted me from my own loneliness.
While she was my wife, she lived like a stranger. Yet once freed from that bond, she treated me as a friend. And then, like a passing gust of wind, she was gone.
She was an example in herself. A woman who stitched her wounds in silence, who either learned to survive in society—or erased herself from it. No man, no rule, no chain could bind her. Yet she was good at heart, as long as people treated her kindly.
I don't know when our time together passed. I only know she came into my life like a shadow, stayed for a while, and vanished back into darkness. I don't know where she is now. She never contacted me again, and I never saw her since. Her Instagram and Facebook accounts are silent. Perhaps she made new ones, perhaps she simply erased herself.
One thing I learned from that marriage: she could go to any lengths to stay away from people.
Now I wonder—if only I had come into her life not as a husband, but as the friend she longed for—maybe she would still be here.
But when someone's wounds are torn so deep that they fester into an unhealing rot, that person either destroys themselves—or dies long before their body does.
THE END....