Book review- IRKADURA by Ksenia Anske

Blurb: My mama became a catfish when I was two, on the day I stopped talking."

Neglected since birth by her mother, Irina Myshko hasn’t spoken a word for most of her short Soviet life. Outcast as a mute idiot and abused by her mother's boyfriends, she escapes into an alternate reality where true natures show and people are revealed as the beasts they are. Pregnant, homeless, and penniless, Irina has to make a choice — learn to live in this splintered world or descend into madness.

As a voracious reader, I have come across many books in life. Some, I read just for a good time and then forgot about. Some, I read and remember for quite some time- books with memorable characters in touching stories which enriched me as a person. And then there are books like IRKADURA, which is not only memorable but also heart-wrenchingly honest in its prediction of the brutality that we humans inflict on each other, and roused me from my long somnolence about the insidious evil that prevails in some of our minds and hearts.
Irina Myshko is a beleaguered teenager in Soviet Russia, grappling with an abusive, negligent, alcoholic mother and a drunkard rapist of a step-father. Constantly sexually abused by her mother's boyfriend and numerous lovers, Irina decides to run away from home one fine morning. Pregnant, alone and helpless in a big, merciless city and at the mercy of a hypocritical, cold and apathetically cruel society, Irina copes with her predicament by resorting to magical realism- she turns all the humans into animals in her head, decreeing each person's animal name by their respective natures and actions. While her mom is a catfish, her rapist stepfather is a boar.

As Irina tries to grapple with the demons in her head, undergoes more torture on the streets and also encounters new people and adventures, she has to walk a thin line between keeping her mind and losing it completely...to carry her story to a shocking, highly emotional conclusion.
IRKADURA is many things all at once. It is the heart-wrenching, gritty story of a young, dumb-mute, physically, sexually, verbally and mentally tormented teenage girl who braves all odds to survive and conquer her horrifyingly brutal past. It is a between-the-lines commentary of the social mores prevalent in Soviet society at that time- the hypocrisy, the misogyny, the harsh judgment on people who happened to be different, the coldness towards people in dire need of help, the apathy, the discrimination. The prevailing attitudes towards women. It is a love story. It is a portrayal of the bitter reality of the human psyche. It is a  possible fairy-tale gone horribly wrong. It is a book that will give you a lesson in facing your demons and healing from your hurts- without proselytizing.
Ksenia has effortlessly combined magical realism with brilliant expositions of the world around Irina along with excellent descriptions of Irina's thoughts, conflicts and struggles- both inner and outer. The story manages to touch the reader's heart on every level because it is sincere, honest and does not mince words or use flowery language at any point. The author has accomplished the rare feat of pouring her heart out and doing it so beautifully and mind-blowingly, making the reader join Irina in her adventures, experience her joy, her pain, her dilemmas and cry with her.
Ksenia is an excellent author in her own right, but I will still say that she can write magic realism like Gabriel Garcia Marquez, beautiful exposition like Markus Zusak and descriptions of scenes from real life like Dostoevsky, because I consider Ksenia's writing to be of that level.
The ending WILL make you cry.
DON'T read this book if you are weak of heart or of mind or like to read stories with happy endings and palaces and lovey-dovey romances.
DO READ this book if you like gritty stories of pain, violence and struggle with strong, tough women protagonists, heavy on emotions and having memorable supporting characters like Sim and Pavlik.
On an end note, I would like to state that I have read other books by Ksenia like Rosehead and the Siren Suicides trilogy- she is an AWESOME author, can write a lot more than just Fantasy- her genre of choice- and her arc of growth as an author has been as interesting as those of the intriguing characters in her intriguing books.
YES, I am very happy with Brand Ksenia :D. You will be too, once you sample her books.

You can find all the links for buying Irkadura here: http://www.kseniaanske.com/books/irkadura

You can find Ksenia's other books here: http://www.kseniaanske.com/books/rosehead; http://www.kseniaanske.com/books/siren-suicides.

Finally, you can connect with Ksenia at her blog: http://www.kseniaanske.com/blog/

Prologue

30^th December, 1610

“They are coming for you, Elizabeth. They are coming… for you,” I say to the Countess, who lies prone on the huge bed.

“Why did you do this, Mihaly? Why, szerelmem? I thought you loved me,” the Countess replies, looking at me with her brown eyes, turned red because of the tears flowing down her beautiful face.

“I do love you, Elizabeth. I love you like I will never… love another woman on this Earth. That’s why… I had… to do this,” I reply, feeling the hot tears flowing down my own cheeks.

“No! You are lying, Mihaly! You are lying to my face! You would never have done this horrible thing if you really loved me! Never!” she shouts in reply, and  then buries her head in her hands.

“In a few hours from now they’ll be taking you away, forever. I’m never going to see you again! You think I like this? I don’t. But they know what you did, Elizabeth. They know, and there is no way out for you, but to surrender and take responsibility,” I reply.

“No! Never! I am the Countess Bathory de Ecsed! I never will bow in front of anyone…not in the least those perfidious fools who think they can arrest me and put me on trial!” she shouts again, this time getting out of bed and standing beside it, her beautiful face livid with rage.

“Those perfidious fools are from the highest court in the land, Elizabeth. The court of the King of Hungary. You can’t do anything but accept your fate and do as they say,” I reply.

Immediately there is a loud knock on the bedroom door.

“Your Excellency? The Countess Erzsebet Bathory de Ecsed?Kindly open the door!” a man shouts from the other side.

Elizabeth and I look at each other. They have come earlier than I anticipated.

Elizabeth reaches one hand towards me, as if trying to bridge the distance between us- which appears to be more of a chasm.

“Your Excellency? I am Gyorgy Thurzo, and have come here for you. Please open the door!” the same man’s voice came again.

“ Please, Mihaly, please save me...”

Her last words are drowned out by the door of our bedroom flying open.

Leibster Blog Award

Thank you, Dola Basu Singh (http://shiuli.com/2014/10/14/leibster-blog-award/) for nominating me for the Leibster Blog Award. It's both an encouragement and an honor :).

11 facts about myself:

1. I am a pharmacist by vocation, now studying for a post-graduate degree in clinical pharmacy.

2. My three passions in life are reading, writing and research in the pharmaceutical field.

3. I aspire to be a neuroscientist in the future- and make some big breakthroughs in this field.

4. I hope that someday, I can write a good horror novel.

5. I am a consummate foodie, but I also love to cook- I get quite experimental in the kitchen.

6. I love discovering more about the disciplines of sociology, psychology and psychiatry.

7. I love watching Hollywood movies and American TV crime shows- Criminal Minds, Dexter, Hannibal, CSI etc.

8. Secretly, I am a big fan of horror novels and TV shows- American Horror Story, Supernatural, Stephen King, Bram Stoker etc.etc.

9.I have three diaries filled with two unfinished novels lying in my drawer.

10. I write a web mini-series called The Face-Off Killer on this very blog.

11. I wrote two short stories in the eighth grade and a novel in the tenth grade- which I have never shown anyone.

My answers to Dola's questions:

1. What were you like at school?

Ans: An introverted, awkward nerd with her nose always stuck in a book.

2.Were you good in English?

Ans: Yes- I got a proficiency prize every year.

3. Which writers inspire you?

Ans: Dostoevsky, Stephen King, Dan Brown, James Patterson, Agatha Christie, Henry James, Stieg Larsson, Arthur Conan Doyle etc.

4.What genre are your books/stories/unpublished manuscripts?

Ans: All my manuscripts are crime thrillers. Most of my stories are as well, but some are horror, some are slices-of-life types as well.

5.What draws you to this genre?

Ans: Crime fiction allows me to explore the dark recesses of the human mind, the evil lurking within our psyches, and helps me understand the motivations behind some of the most bestial, inhumane acts humans are capable of committing.

6.When did you decide to become a writer?

Ans: I wrote two short stories when I was in the eighth grade. Since then I knew I wanted to become a writer.

7. Where do your ideas come from?

Ans: From science journals, magazines, newspapers, TV shows, books and observing real life people and incidents.

8. What is the easiest thing about writing?

Ans: The 'thinking' and 'planning' about writing is the easiest part.

9. What is the most difficult thing about writing?

Ans: Writing and finishing any piece- whether a short story or a novel- is the most difficult part. And then comes editing, of course.

10. Do you ever get Writer’s Block? How do you overcome it?

Ans: I do get stuck in the middle of a story sometimes. I usually read, continue other writing projects or watch a TV show- all of which help unclog the 'story jam'.

11. What book(s) are you reading at the moment?

Ans: Henry James's collection of short stories, Henri Cherriere's Papillon and The Man Who Mistook His Wife For a Hat by Dr. Oliver Sacks.

My questions for my nominees:

1.What is the ultimate aim of blogging or writing?

2.What is the story behind your blog name?

3.What’s your favorite genre- science fiction, fantasy, romance, comedy, crime…?

4.Who is your favorite author?

5.Which writers inspire you?

6.In what genre are your books/stories/unpublished manuscripts?

7.When did you decide to become a writer?

8.Who is that one writer you would absolutely want to emulate in your writings?

9. Apart from writing, what are your other interests?

10. Do you have a playlist of songs you like to listen to while writing?

11. Do you believe that consumption of caffeine boosts creativity?

I nominate Ushasri Nannapaneni (http://ushaveera68.wordpress.com/2014/10/14/202/), Aarti Venkatraman, Neelesh Gajanan Inamdar, Devika Fernando (http://www.devikafernando.com/) and Manogna MG. I hope all of these amazing people and authors take up this challenge :).

American Beauty

American Beauty

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” Oliver whispered to his best friend squatting beside him, his forehead creased with worry and drenched in sweat.

“Yeah! We are, dude. Why the hell do you have to be such a chicken every time I try to get us to do something new? I think the room has a TV…American Beauty is on!” Gareth replied in a whisper, his gaze straight ahead.

“Because this is crazy, Gary! We’re spying on the Reverend’s daughter, for heaven’s sake! On a particularly warm summer night!” Oliver whispered, squinting to get a better look inside the window of what they assumed was Reverend Morgan’s daughter Angela’s bedroom. Oliver left his glasses behind in his house when Gary had sneaked inside his bedroom and asked him to follow him for a nighttime adventure.

“Why do you wanna do this anyway?” Oliver asked.

“Are you kidding me? Haven’t you seen Angie Morgan? She’s like the prettiest girl in class! What with those blue eyes, and those gorgeous lips…and don’t get me started about that butt of hers…it’s like a peach! I’m not a religious person, but that girl’s beauty is divine!” Gary replied.

“Of course I have seen Angela, and she is beautiful. But still, we are a pair of peeping Toms looking inside a girl’s bedroom. We’re violating her privacy!” Oliver observed.

“Don’t be such a goody-goody, Oliver. And why the hell are you squinting inside her bedroom if…wait a second…what the hell!” Gareth whispered, staring inside the , which was wide open, with his eyes as wide as tennis balls.

“What? What is it, Gary? What’s happening? Tell me!” Oliver whispered.

“What is the Reverend doing in Angie’s bedroom? Where the hell is she?” Gary whispered.

“What’re you talking about?”

“Reverend Morgan just entered Angie’s room…he looks gross in those shorts and vest. He’s watching American Beauty, for God’s sake! What a pervert!” Gary whispered.

“Seriously? He’s the pervert? We’re trespassing inside someone’s property to peep inside a girl’s bedroom and he’s the pervert for watching American Beauty?” Oliver whispered, smacking the back of his friend’s head.

“Stop playing the moral police, you moron! Angie’s the Reverend’s daughter so I can never hang out with her in public or make her my girlfriend. This is my only way to be near her. Plus, the Reverend is a man of God and men of God don’t watch a sexy hot movie,” Gary whispered in reply.

“That’s a load of bullcrap!”

“Shut up! Let me watch, now!”

Five minutes passed with both friends squatting in silence in the bushes, with only the sounds of the insects chirping around them and the cover of darkness for company.

“What’s happening inside?” Oliver whispered.

“Getting bored, huh! Well…the Reverend seems to be enjoying the movie. Ah gross!” Gary exclaimed in a whisper.

“What?”

“He just put his hand inside his shorts. There’s a racy scene going on in the movie. Guy’s a hypocrite. Disgusting!” Gary whispered.

“Yikes. It’s a good thing I didn’t get my glasses,” Oliver observed.

“Yeah…it’s not a pretty site. Wait, what the hell!” Gary whispered urgently.

“What now?”

“Angie just entered the room…wow! She’s wearing…shorts and a tank top! Ummmm!” Gary replied with a whisper, licking his lower lip with his tongue.

“Are you sure you should look?” Oliver asked.

“Cut the crap…wait! Oliver! Something’s going on here. Angie has a gun in her hands!”

“What? What gun?” Oliver asked, squinting inside the window.

“It’s a Colt .45. What the…she’s coming up behind her father…holy crap!”

“What’s happening? Gary? What’s going on?”

“Angie’s aimed the gun at the back of her father’s head.”

“Oh my God! Do you think we should…”

BANG.BANG.BANG.

Both boys were so startled that they fell backwards, their heads hitting the hard ground with a soft thud, their mouths instinctively clamped shut with their hands to suppress their screams of panic.

“Gary?” Oliver whispered.

“Yeah?” Gary whispered in reply.

“Were these gunshots?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Oliver. Angie shot her father. Three times. Oh God,” Gary replied, closing his eyes.

He opened them immediately, because with his eyes closed he could only see the horrible visage of the back of the Reverend’s head exploding like a ripe watermelon and a river of blood gushing out- some of it also spraying on Angie.

“I doubt there is a God if that angel of a girl can shoot her father,” Oliver commented, wiping some sweat off his face. He realized his shirt was drenched too and stuck to his chest.

It was the second time that night he was thankful he had forgotten his glasses at home.

“Oliver?” Gary whispered.

“Yeah?”

“This is our little secret, okay? No one ever needs to know what we just saw.”

“Don’t you think we should call the police and report the crime?”

“And getting caught for trespassing and trying to peep in Angie’s house? No thank you!”

“You’re right. I didn’t think of that eventuality.”

“Besides you just called her an angel yourself. Do you really wanna see her in jail for patricide?”

“No, I don’t. You’re right. We will take this secret with us to the grave.”

“Yeah. Now let’s scoot from here before the whole neighborhood realizes what happened and comes running here,” Gary replied, and tried to think of how to manage sitting up without the top of his head showing above the bushes. If Angela happened to see Oliver and him, he was sure their heads would be the next to explode like watermelons.

“You think the neighbors heard the shots? Angie shot the Reverend point blank,” Oliver whispered, lifting his body off the ground and trying to get his bearings in the dark.

“Yeah, but the sound wasn’t that muted. If we heard it then the immediate neighbors must have heard it too. Shit, someone’s coming. Come on!”

Both boys managed to run away just before the first neighbor knocked on the Reverend’s door three minutes later.

WIP Blog Contest

Thanks to Reet Singh (http://www.reetsingh.in/wip-amitree.php) for nominating me. Here is a fascimile from the first few chapters of my WIP- The Mystery of Stokerville. This is my first foray into the interesting but tough genre of horror.

Blurb: Jenny and her friends go to a cabin, named Stokerville, owned by one of Jenny’s uncle- who mysteriously disappeared in the mansion some years back Things start to go wrong from day one of their stay. The girls feel watched while in the shower or changing clothes, the boys discover mysterious bite marks on their bodies when they wake up in the morning. All of them have terrible, recurrent, vivid nightmares. Something lurks in the basement. Creepy shadows steal across the hallways and rooms, even during the day time. There is also a stunning discovery- the diary of Jenny’s uncle, written in the days before his disappearance. The kids try to escape...but discover they can't, and then they come face to face with the evil that forms the foundation of the house

First chapter: “Help! Somebody help me!” she screamed, running along the long, twisting corridor. The walls had wall brackets with lamps illuminating the passageway, and also some strange drawings on the wallpaper- women screaming, people ripping out other people with knives, the face of The Beast and other such grotesque illustrations.

Second Chapter: “Are we sure we should be doing this?” Jenny asked, looking at the looming edifice towering in front of her. The first seed of doubt had crept into her mind the moment they had turned onto the dirt road, branching off from the Maine-New Hampshire Interstate. The seed had grown into a full-fledged plant of doubt when she saw the abandoned cabin, firmly ensconced in the shadow of the dense canopy of trees looming over and around it, giving it a strangely creepy look. It didn’t help that the place was called as Stokerville- apparently in honor of Bram Stoker.

Third chapter: “I must tell you, Jenny, weird or not, your uncle had a fantastic idea of building a bachelor pad,” Tashi commented, as they had dinner at the glass dining table in the kitchen.

“Yeah! I mean…I’m seriously impressed by his collection of books. I could sit in that study for days on end and read. It’s perfect- volumes of horror anthologies and tomes of horror novels by authors around the world…in a cabin called Stokerville in the middle of nowhere. Just perfect,” Rudy added.

The Nightmare on Loony Street

She is standing in the middle of a desolate road, bordered on both sides by dense forests. She’s dressed in a white dress which comes halfway down her thighs. In her hand, she holds an axe. Beside her lies a white paint can. It is actually filled with vermilion, sticky fluid which looks like blood.

In front of her is a car. All the windows and doors are open. Bodies lie halfway in, halfway outside the open doors. Rivers of blood and gore flow in all directions, the bright vermilion interspersed with the dull grey.

But there is no blood on her dress or bare legs. Her face is covered completely by a blue bag- there are no slits for eyes or lips or nose. Suddenly, her whole body shakes in spasmodic intervals, her limbs moving in a methodical madness to some rhythm.

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! They’re all dead…hahahahaha!” a disembodied voice comes out of nowhere.

                                         ***********

Nightmares. So many of them exist, so varied in their horrors, sometimes so vivid in their presentation. They may come only in the night to other people, but not to me. Nightmares are a part of my routine thoughts- they come and go anytime they please. People have nightmares when they sleep- I have waking nightmares too. It’s been like this for a really long time, so I have made my peace with them. I have had to do so, even though these nightmares scare the hell out of me- every damn time.

I have seen a whole lot of nightmarish visions. Some are bright, Technicolor  MGM movies, while others are old black and white videos, blurred and flitting. Some come often, some only once and some are frequent. All of them are scary and creepy.

But the most frightening one is the one with the woman in white. This woman is particularly special, because she haunts me even in my waking dreams.

She appears of out of nowhere, anywhere and everywhere, and just stands nearby me, with an axe in her hand and her face obscured by a light blue bag-like thing. She has never shown her face till now. I have wondered often as to her identity, but I daren’t go near her and try to lift the bag from over her head. Something I’ve been dying to do for a long time.

This lady is not the only one whom I see everywhere. There is the man in the brown suit who sits on the swing, outside the house, when nobody else is there.

There is the old lady, in a red gown and with long, silver hair and heavily wrinkled skin who sits on the rocking chair in my room and oscillates it noisily, anytime she so pleases. If I happen to drop in on her while she’s at it, I find her staring at me with a constancy that sends a chill down my spine.

There are the twin sisters, very young, who often sneak around in the basement.

 There is the boy, covered in blood and mud, who roams around in the backyard frequently.

There’s the robed and hooded figure that appears outside my classroom window at school.

There’s the girl, in tattered clothes and a burnt face, who often sits beside my desk in the classroom.

There’s the other girl, with most of her lower jaw blown away and the blood and bones showing beneath, who appears in the lavatory when I’m the only one there.

Sounds crazy, right? I know. Everybody thinks I’m crazy. My parents, my teachers, my classmates. They all think I should be in a mental asylum. I have heard them say it.

People at the school call me Crazy Vera. I know it because they call me that to my face. I don’t care much for it. They call me crazy because I can see people who’re invisible to them. In their terms, I see people who’re not there in reality.

They don’t understand. Not even a little bit. Their world is limited to popularity, puppy romance, fashion, good food and stupid chick-lit movies and football games. Nothing in their horizon of interest has an iota of reality. I can see reality, and I’m the only one who can do so.

My parents even took me to a psychiatrist. She asked me about what I keep seeing, and I told her the truth. Every little bit of it. And she told my parents to give me some white pills- to stop the nightmares and visions, I suppose.

The waking dreams got a little blurred, like I was looking at them through a translucent glass pane. I started sleeping anytime, anywhere and everywhere- in the shower, in the classroom, in the school bathroom, in the kitchen, in the backyard.

The meds suddenly stopped. My mother told me I’d nearly drowned in the swimming pool of my school’s gym, when I chose to doze off during a swim lesson.

That was it. My parents stopped trying to ‘cure’ me of my nightmares and visions, still thinking I’m crazy. I chose to lie to them and say that the visions have disappeared, along with the bad dreams. It was then that I found Harry.

He is the only vision whom I can talk to. He appears as a hazy, background character in the nightmares. In my waking dreams, he is a tall, dark-haired, handsome boy, who tells me he’s 17- my age- and that he likes talking to me. Harry and I have long conversations in my bedroom. Sometimes he stands beside my desk in the classroom and smiles at me. Sometimes he appears outside the shower curtain and we talk while I’m bathing. I really like Harry. I want to kiss him some day.

He tells me not to be scared of the old lady in red, the hooded figure, or the girl with the burnt face. He also tells me to ignore the other people I see- they’re harmless. I want to ask him who these people really are, but am too scared of the answer.

I did ask Harry if he’ll be with me forever- because I’m so lonely in this world and he’s the only one who gets me. He has said yes, that he’ll never leave me because he also likes me and my company. That makes me very happy.

                                            ************

 Ward 201, Baltimore Psychiatric Hospital For The Criminally Insane

“I’m telling you, this chick’s super crazy,” Nurse Greene says to Nurse Linden.

Nurse Linden: Yeah. Unbelievable, this is. I heard she killed her own family. She’s Vera Morgan, right?

Nurse Greene: Yeah. Hacked them all to death with an axe. Have you heard the whole story?

Nurse Linden: No, tell me.

Nurse Greene: The way I hear it, the Morgans were driving to Vera’s grandparents’ estate in Maryland. Their car broke down on the highway outside of Newport. Apparently, she killed her father, mother and two brothers with an axe. When they found her, she was standing in the middle of the road, holding the bloody murder weapon, and she was laughing continuously, while her family’s corpses bled, lying halfway in, halfway out of the Morgan’s car. She was wearing this white dress, which was also covered in blood. Also, she had a paint can beside her, filled with blood.

Nurse Linden: Wow. That is one of the weirdest and craziest things I have heard in my life. How do you know so many details?

Nurse Greene: Vera’s dad, Dr. Brent Morgan, was a friend of our chief, Dr. Leeds. I overheard the police detective talking to him the other day.

Nurse Linden: I’ve never seen a loony like Vera. She doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, doesn’t do anything. Just sits and mutters something all day.

Nurse Greene: I know. I’ve heard her talking to someone called Harry. She even scratches his name on the walls.

Nurse Linden: The scratching is worse. She has broken her nails and bled her fingertips with that.

Nurse Greene: She’s stuck in her own brain, poor kid. Let’s go and have some coffee.

Nurse Linden: Yeah. Lets’ go.

                                                    **********

 Some days after this conversation, Nurses Greene and Linden were the ones who found Vera Morgan dead in her ward. She’d died by slitting her wrists and throat with a pointed piece of wood she had managed to find somewhere. But there was something, written in blood, on the walls of the ward. It was interpreted by the cops as a suicide note.

I LIFTED THE BLUE BAG.

I KNOW THAT GIRL IS ME.

I DON’T WANNA SEE ANYMORE.

I WANT TO BE WITH HARRY FOREVER.

Copyright @ Percy Kerry 2014

Project 52- Week 4- Fidelity

"I hate you, Mark! I hate you so, so much!"

"What the hell have I done now?"

"Who is she?”

“Who the hell are you talking about?”

“The woman you’re sleeping with! Behind my back! Who the hell is the bitch?”

“For god’s sake, Lydia! I’m not having an affair!”

“Yes you are, liar ! You think I’m an idiot? That I don’t notice what’s going on?”

“Really? What is it that you don’t notice?”

“The lipstick stains on the collar of your shirt! Plus the smell of a woman’s perfume that comes from your clothes!”

“Seriously? That was just one time, Lydia! I told you, a colleague of mind, who happens to be shorter than me, bumped into me in the corridor and so I got her lipstick on my shirt. And I don’t smell any feminine perfume on my clothes, for the record.”

“So you think I’m crazy, huh?”

“Yes! Yes, definitely. You’re stir crazy, Lydia! All you ever do is doubt me. You have never, ever placed an iota of trust in me. I don’t know why you do this. I love you, and all I get for that is your suspicion and your acerbic remarks. You have never said a good thing to me as a spouse, and treat me as if I’m some low-life lecher. I don’t even know why I’m married to you anymore!”

“Don’t you dare pile on me, you pervert! All you men are the same. First you treat women as objects and cheat on them, then you accuse them of being crazy!”

“Enough! I’m done with you, Lydia! I’m really, really done. I agreed to stay trapped with you in this shit-hole of a marriage because I thought that someday, you will see my love for you and we can relive our relationship again. But you refuse to change. Alright, it’s over. I’m getting a divorce.”

“What? You’re…divorcing me?”

“Yes. Neither of us are happy in this marriage, so it’s best to end it. I want to marry someone who puts some faith in me as a husband.”

“But…but…I go all psycho on you only because I want to see how much you love me, Mark! How much you can put up with to stay in this marriage!”

“Oh God! You need a psychiatrist, Lydia!”