Means to an End

Content Warning: This story contains descriptions of domestic abuse, toxic relationships, emotional distress, and mention of intimate partner violence and femicide.

Means to an End

Near the end of the winter of 2021, I was finishing my second year of college. I had finished my first year with a GPA of 4.0. I was smart. Almost brilliant. I managed to work over forty hours every week, get my work done in an exceptional manner, and still tend to everything else going on in life.

Almost a year had passed, and my ‘almost-brilliance’ had vanished. Shortly before the end of my fall semester in school, Folke had shown up and swept me off my feet. When he did, other matters became more important than things like grades and school. I dropped the ball as I started to worry about how Folke felt. If he was content enough with me. Before I knew it, I had added a year onto my studies. I had fallen behind, but it was all worth it in the long-run. It would be worth it for him.

Even then, sparks were flying near the end of the summer of 2022. I had been with Folke for almost a year, and as I approached my twenty-first birthday, the idea of an engagement seemed more and more possible. The pressure of learning how to cook, and tend to the house felt like a sweet challenge. There was so much I had to prepare for. Having breakfast, lunch, and dinner ready. Ironing linen dress shirts and work pants. Making sure the laundry was done. That the bathroom was clean. I had made it my goal to be a warm, caring wife. Although my left ring finger remained empty, I knew the moment would soon approach. I would have the rock on my hand and all the hard work I had invested would soon bear fruit.

After making many mistakes, I had learned valuable lessons. I needed to be careful with my words, and with the way I showed my appreciation towards Folke. He was ill tempered, but I figured everyone had their flaws. My flaw was always making him upset.

Folke and I had been discussing marriage since we first began dating. We were sure of each other, and of what we desired out of life. We would be a young wife and husband, and eventually pop babies out. We would do what God intended for us; to be fruitful and multiply. Unfortunately, most days consisted of arguments. Our relationship often felt like a broken record player, but I was hopeful that saying, “I do,” would lead us in the right direction.

Despite thinking we had been on the same page, Folke often asked me why I so firmly believed marriage would fix us.

“Getting married is just a formal event. Why would anything change afterwards?,” he waved this question over my head.

Still, I drove to bridal shops and ran my fingers through rows of white dresses—fabrics, styles, and patterns blending into one another. I wanted something timeless. Simple. Elegant. Nothing seemed right.

Another year passed, and still, my left ring finger remained bare.

Throughout the entirety of Folke’s and I’s journey, I had continuously received the short end of the stick. This ranged from simple occurrences like Folke being late to a dinner date, to Folke smacking me across the face for accidentally joking in a hurtful manner. While our relationship had become a source of pain, the most painful aspect of it all was that I was losing myself and other people who mattered to me. I thought back to friendships I had abandoned—their constant complaints about abusive boyfriends. Nagging. I had called it. Pitiful.

The more time passed, the more Folke did things that stung. And the more he did things that stung, the more I became the nagging and pitiful friend to other people. Others grew weary, but I couldn’t blame them. I also grew weary of myself. Any ambition that remained within me was centered on Folke. What makes Folke happy? What could make him happier? Is there anything I could have done better for him? Will Folke like this? Does he still love me?

I distinctly remember a conversation I had with Folke’s mom. She told me about this woman who had been beaten badly by her husband, yet stayed, gave birth to his children, and tried to paint the picture that he was a warm, caring husband.

“It’s a terrible thing to protect someone’s image– it makes you wonder who you’re really doing it for. Are you doing it for them? Or are you doing it to save yourself the humiliation?,” his mom added.

Unfortunately, after sixteen years of marriage, three kids, and caking make up over bruises, he strangled her in the middle of the night after discovering her high school boyfriend had reached out on Facebook.

She never got the chance to reply, or even view the message. And he decided she’d never get the chance to.

After hearing this story, I realized my ambition was an empty one. An ambition that reflected the insignificant worth I had adopted for myself. And everyone started treating me accordingly.

I had become a battered wife without being a wife.

After the conversation with his mom, and a handful of arguments, Folke’s and I’s relationship took a brief, one-month pause. My brain had been drained, and I found myself questioning the line between right and wrong. I questioned myself and events surrounding the relationship; he was not the type of person I wanted being the father of my children.

Still, I loved him, and my hypothetical children weren’t enough to keep me away. After hollow promises, we decided to give the relationship another chance. This came with one condition, which was largely put in place by me: we would make a relationship contract. This contract would list in detail different rules “we” would have to follow. In reality, this mostly addressed different negative aspects of his treatment towards me. I had drafted the entire contract, and after Folke quickly skimmed through it, he agreed to follow through with it. The top of the contract read: RELATIONSHIP CONTRACT.

The first stipulation was straightforward. “1. Abuse and mistreatment of any kind will absolutely not be tolerated by either partner. Both individuals agree to treat each other with respect, and understand that the other partner will leave if improper behavior is demonstrated.”

The rest of the contract highlighted different rules and conditions that restated or elaborated more on the first one.

“This is just a small bump in the road babe. No worries. I’ll do better. Hopefully you will too,” Folke reassured me.

Although hope trickled through my being, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t shocked when a week later, we began arguing again. I considered reviewing the contract, and pointing out the fact he had agreed to it. When I found the paper, the lines were blank. The signature, missing.

It was a pointless contract.

A few months passed, and before I knew it we were two weeks away from Christmas. It was December 11th, 2023 and Folke had refused to talk to me for the day. Instead, he chose to go off with his friends to play pool and drink. I knew he was bothered by a question I had asked a few days ago. He said he had forgiven me, but his behavior said otherwise. I was unsure of how to proceed, and so, I slept.

Around 2 a.m., I felt my phone buzz various times. Unlike other times, I refused to pick up my phone. I knew it was Folke. I rolled over, hugged my blanket, and for a brief moment I wasn’t anyone’s girlfriend. I wasn’t anyone’s potential fiancee or future wife. I was simply a twenty year old girl in the safety of her own bed, preparing to doze off.

By 4 a.m., my phone had buzzed more times than I could remember. As I felt the next buzzing sensation, I debated answering. A minute passed and the buzzing stopped just as I decided to answer. As expected, Folke had been calling me time after time. Hour after hour. I was certain he had too much to drink and that along with a high alcohol level, he also had plenty of rage. Hesitantly, I called back.

After a few rings, he answered the phone.

“What do you want Folke?,” I snapped at him, consumed with exhaustion.

“Ma’am, is this Folke’s wife?,” an unknown, eerie voice spoke through the phone.

Wife? Wife. After rolling the world around my tongue thousands of times, the word no longer sounded hopeful. It felt like receiving a life sentence. Maybe even a death one.

“No, I’m his girlfriend. Who is this?,” I asked.

“This is Officer Davis. Do you happen to know where Folke is?,” the voice twisted through the phone.

“No, I don’t know where he is. What’s going on?”

“Ma’am, Folke was just in a car accident. It seems he drove his car into a wall and totaled it. He fled the scene and we are unsure where he is. He left everything behind. Phone. Wallet. Everything.”

“Guys, stop messing with me. Just give Folke his phone back.”

I figured Folke had passed out and was drunk laying in the middle of a casino somewhere while his idiot friends took his phone to play a sick prank on me.

“This is not a prank. This is Officer Davis with the Spokane Police Department.”

I held my breath and assessed the situation. Within ten seconds, I had thought about what the man on the other line had said. I could hear the sound of radios going off in the background, and it felt almost as if the red, white, and blue police lights were blaring in my face. I did not recognize the man’s voice. I had met plenty of Folke’s friends, and none of them sounded remotely similar. This was not a prank.

“Is he hurt? Was anyone else hurt? Oh my God. Where is he?”

“We don’t know. He left his car behind along with all of his possessions, and witnesses say he fled by foot with a woman. Do you happen to be with him right now?”

“No. I haven’t seen him in days. A woman?”

Hearing this didn’t surprise me. The last year of my relationship with him consisted of consistently trying to prove myself. I needed to be truthful. Pristine. Unwaveringly trustworthy. Still, my attempts only failed. In his eyes, I was easy. A liar. A traitor. I never understood where any of this came from, but it had become a source of ambition. I always believed that one day he would see me the way I wanted him to.

As I pictured Folke running from the car, I imagined him in a black tuxedo, hand-in-hand with a girl in a white dress like the ones I had looked at just a few months ago. The questions I often asked myself crossed through my mind. What makes Folke happy? What could make him happier? Is there anything I could have done better for him? Will Folke like this? Does he still love me? And once again, I was reminded of the emptiness within the ambition that had driven me for what seemed like a lifetime.

My whole life had turned into thinking about what would please him, and doing things that I hoped would. I no longer looked in the mirror and saw a well established college student. The accomplishments I often boasted about had often disappeared, and despite still having Folke as my boyfriend, I felt the loneliest and most worthless I ever had.

My worth had diminished to match my ambition—worthless.