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墨書 Inktalez
The dumbbell fell heavily.
Once, twice, three times... until I was certain she would never wake up again. Throughout the entire process, I felt an odd sense of calm. Perhaps this is what people refer to as "psychological break," when a person is pushed to their limits and the connection between emotion and action snaps.
Blood, everywhere there was blood.
I hadn’t expected so much of it. I thought calmly about my next steps. As a lawyer, I knew how to handle "evidence." I went to the bathroom and retrieved a pair of scissors and several large plastic bags.
I began... no, these details are too horrific for me to describe. But I had to handle everything thoroughly, leaving no traces behind. I placed her... remains... into a pot and boiled them. This would prevent the smell of blood from spreading and make subsequent handling easier.
In that moment, I felt as if I were no longer human.
A few hours later, I loaded the woven bag containing her and a suitcase into my car and drove out to the wilderness by the canal. I tossed everything in, watching as darkness swallowed all evidence.
Back home, I took a shower and scrubbed the bathroom until it was spotless. Then, I called the police to report my wife missing.
"Officer, my wife hasn't returned since she left last night, and I'm very worried." My voice was surprisingly steady.
But I underestimated Yuan Juan's family. The moment they saw me, suspicion arose in their eyes.
On the third day, I could no longer hold out. I knew the truth would eventually come to light; rather than waiting to be discovered, it was better to confess voluntarily.
I walked into the police station.
"I want to confess," I said to the duty officer, "I killed my wife."
A strange sense of relief surged within me.
The shackles of three years seemed to suddenly unlock, and I could finally breathe, even if it was within the confines of a prison.
The subsequent trial, the accusations, the defense—all felt like they were happening behind a frosted glass.
I heard the prosecutor accuse me of intentional homicide, claiming the circumstances were heinous;
I heard my defense attorney argue that I had reacted abnormally due to prolonged mental torment, classifying me as someone with limited capacity for action.
I sat numbly in the defendant's seat, watching the family of Yuan Juan weep, seeing the despair in my mother’s eyes.
It turned out that the price of "liberation" was so high.
Reflecting on my entire marriage, I still couldn't untangle my feelings.
I hated her control and the pain she inflicted on me, but I had indeed loved her at one point.
It was a complex emotion—love intertwined with hate, and hate intertwined with love.
I often wondered if we hadn't rushed into marriage, if we had taken more time to understand each other... would the outcome have been different?
But there are no "what ifs" in this world.
Days within the iron bars passed both quickly and slowly.
In the blink of an eye, I had spent five years here.
The cell was small, barely over ten square meters, but it was enough for me.
Compared to that home filled with fear and suffocation, this place oddly provided a sense of security.
No one monitored my every move, no one rummaged through my phone at midnight, and no one erupted in hysteria because I glanced at someone for too long.
One day, I came across a book in the prison library about mind control and domestic violence.
The book stated that domestic violence is not just physical harm; it also includes mental manipulation, verbal humiliation, social isolation, and more.
Moreover, it noted that victims of domestic violence are not only women but also men.
At that moment, I felt as if I had awakened from a dream.
I realized I was not alone; everything I had experienced had a name: emotional abuse. I recalled how Yuan Juan threatened me repeatedly, making me afraid to mention divorce. Time and again, she sabotaged my work and friendships, cutting off my social support. Again and again, she belittled my dignity, causing me to doubt my own judgment. All of this was a means of emotional abuse.
Then, I began attending psychological counseling in prison. The counselor was a kind middle-aged woman who told me, "Zhenbin, you are both the perpetrator and the victim. Your actions cannot be excused, but your pain is equally real."
I asked her, "Why couldn't I leave that marriage sooner? I'm a lawyer; I should understand the law and my rights better than most."
"Because emotional abuse is like boiling a frog in warm water," she explained. "It is gradual and hard to detect. By the time you realize it, your self-esteem and judgment have already been stripped away. Furthermore, society often lacks sufficient attention and support for men experiencing domestic violence."
"Healthy love respects boundaries rather than seeks possession and control. Love is not imprisonment; love is freedom."
My mother visited me several times. Because of my case, she was forced to move from her original city to escape the rumors. She cried as she asked me, "Son, why didn't you tell me about your pain back then?"
"Because I felt ashamed," I replied with a bitter smile. "A grown man, a lawyer, unable to manage his own marriage—how ridiculous."
"There's nothing ridiculous about it," she said, wiping her tears. "Anyone can encounter such situations. What matters is that you don't lose hope and don't give up on yourself."
I began writing this story in prison—not to justify or lessen my guilt but in hopes that my experiences could help those in similar situations, especially men who are unaware they are trapped in emotionally controlling relationships.
I want to tell them: Extreme love is not love; it is pathological control. Threatening suicide is not an expression of love; it is emotional blackmail. Cutting off your social circle is not protection; it is isolation control. Belittling your worth is not a joke; it is the destruction of your self-esteem.
If you find yourself experiencing these things, please seek help and leave as soon as possible. Don't wait until you're at rock bottom; don't wait until you end up on an irreversible path like I did.
I killed someone, and I must pay the price for it. But I no longer hate Yuan Juan or myself. I just hope that if time could turn back, we could all receive the help we truly needed.
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