Do you understand?

There was something about him. About Christian Grey. Something that set him apart from almost everyone else I knew. He was not nice.

I know that this is a strange thing to claim about the man I married, but I will try to explain. Most of the time my husband seemed perfectly nice. He had a very charming smile. Underneath it all, however, he was manipulative and controlling.

I could blame my mother for my failure to see through his facade. I could say that she hadn't taught me anything about men. I could blame my father. He hadn't shown me how relationships were supposed to work. I could blame my own inexperience. Not having been in any kind of boy/girl relationship before was definitely part of the problem. I could have used the practise. I could have extrapolated. I hadn't had the chance to explore my sexuality. I had not yet discovered what it was that I wanted out of a relationship. I knew little about sex and even less about love.

Unfortunately, Christian was my first. It was his fault. He took advantage of my lack of experience. He was not a good boyfriend.

Being with him was exciting at first. It was also scary, because he had a volatile temper. I never knew what he might do next, but somehow the danger was part of it. Christian had a way with words. He convinced me that I liked things I didn't like. He made me believe that I imagined the pain I felt. Christian made it seem like the fear and the times he hurt me were normal. He placed everything he did to me in a BDSM context, which appeared to make it alright.

He was an expert at pretending to agree to compromise. It took me a long time to realise that whenever we compromised, the compromise was all mine. He got exactly what he wanted. My friends didn't react well to how he treated me, but the unacceptable quickly became normal. It was an abusive relationship, but I didn't know it. I was naive to the point of stupidity sometimes.

It wasn't until after the birth of our second that I realised any of this. We were at a restaurant. I don't remember the name of the place, but there were a lot of different forks on the table. Christian was telling me a story about Darfur and I wasn't listening. It wasn't a story about Darfur, of course; it was really a story about himself. All Christian's stories were about himself. The subject bored me intensely.

I began to look at the other couples in the restaurant. I observed their behaviour. Happy couples in healthy relationships touch each other a lot. That seems obvious. I remember thinking: Christian is always fondling me: therefore, we must be happy.

One man kissed his wife behind her ear. He was trying to be discreet. She was giggling. It was sweet. I know that you enjoy it when I touch you there.

A woman of about sixty had taken off her shoes and was nudging her husband with her stockinged feet. She winked at him. He blushed. Hey, I love you.

An extremely beautiful redhead was absentmindedly running her nails over the wrist of her pretty girlfriend. The girlfriend took her hand gently and pressed a kiss into her palm. Are you alright? Are you listening?

Suddenly, I was noticing a million variations of touches. I love to touch you. You're adorable. Come here. Do you want dessert? Do you want to skip dessert? How about sex tonight? I just want to hold you in my arms forever. I'm crazy about you.

Christian's touches – especially those in public – were possessive. You're mine. And I mean that literally. He touched me as if he owned me. As if I was an object that was his and it was within his rights to do whatever he pleased with this object. I was an object. I was a possession.

I don't remember what happened the rest of the night. I do remember waking up the next morning and hearing our daughter cry. I stood over her crib and watched her. I didn't pick her up or sooth her for the longest time.

I probably spent the next few months attempting to rationalise my disturbed feelings. Clearly, I didn't actually feel that way. Clearly, it wasn't true. Clearly. I started to remember all the things I'd given up in order to be with him. My car. My independence. My privacy. My freedom. Bodily autonomy. I was shocked by how absolute these terms where.

I couldn't think of a single thing he'd given up.

Marriage isn't about keeping score. I know that. But there has to be a certain balance. One person can't do all the giving while the other person does all the taking. Do you know what that's a description of? It's not a marriage. It's the relationship between a parasite and its host.

I tried to picture divorcing him, but, honestly, I couldn't picture it. Christian got what he wanted. Always. And he had decided that he wanted me. I was trapped. I had been since the moment he laid eyes on me. I knew that this man would not let me go. There was no escape. None that I could see, anyway.

Do you understand already why I had to do it?

I did it when he, please excuse my language, fucked me. I can't say 'made love' or 'had sex' or even 'when we fucked.' I was an object again. An appliance to be utilised when needed. Like a dishwasher or a toaster. You don't ask those what they want either. Nor do you spare a thought to whether they enjoy the process you're putting them through. You just usethem. That's what they're there for.

So, intercourse… It was unpleasant. I think it was meant to be. I was being punished for something. I don't know what. I almost never knew. He rarely told me. It was as if he expected me to read his mind.

I said no. It was like a little test. I'd said no before, but eventually Christian always got his way. It was like that this time too.

I said no a second time and a third time. I could see in his eyes that it meant absolutely nothing to him. He wasn't going to stop. I had been pretending that I usually gave in, that I was weak, that if I really wanted him to stop, he would. That was a lie. I had been lying to myself.

I guess I snapped. It wasn't temporary insanity. It was more akin to temporary sanity. This man was going to continue to intimidate, humiliate and terrorise me unless I stopped him. So I did. I finally protected myself. I protected my loves ones.

Do you understand now why I had to do it? Maybe you can't. Murder defies justification. But I hope that you at least understand why I did it. If you do, you will understand that I will never apologise. That, in fact, I would do it again. That I don't care if you decide to grant me parole or not. My children are safe.

The end.

(***)

Author's note:

Several commenters have expressed that they are either baffled or offended that someone who is not a fan of FSoG is writing FSoG fanfiction.

To those who are offended: I will continue to write what I like to write regardless of your outrage.

To those who are baffled: Let's start at the beginning. Why did I read the books? If I don't like them, I simply shouldn't read them, right? This is such a weird question to me, because how am I supposed to know that I don't like the books when I haven't read them?

So, I read the FSoG books and I didn't like them. I think the books are extremely badly written. I think Ana and Christian's relationship is abusive. I think Christian is arrogant and manipulative. I think Ana is snotty and stupid. Yet, I'm writing FSoG fanfiction. Why?

First of all, I like to write fanfiction. Canon can be fun, but it's limited. I like to write about things that haven't happened in canon. This is why Christian is (brutally) murdered in my stories. I would have liked to have seen that happen in canon. It's my way of 'fixing' FSoG.

Secondly, the majority of people who read FSoG fanfiction are FSoG fans, but there are also plenty of people who, like me, didn't exactly love the books and are looking for some snark. For my and their enjoyment, I provide them with snark.

Thirdly, I am amazed by your bafflement. I write 'Beware: I'm not a FSoG fan' in the summaries of all of my FSoG stories. Therefore, before reading the story, you already know that I am not a fan. You also know that you should 'beware,' which to any functioning literate would read like a warning that I will (at the very least) be critical of a work of fiction and/or fictional characters that you like.

See, when I picked up FSoG, I expected an erotic love story, because that's how the book is marketed. What I got instead was a crappily written depiction of two insufferable idiots in an abusive relationship. You, on the other hand, knew what to expect when you clicked on my story. So, it's very hard for me to take you seriously when you then proceed to complain in a review that I should not be writing FSoG fanfiction, because I'm not a fan. You were informed and you chose to read it anyway. You only have yourself to blame for your disappointment.