I Can’t Free Myself From Him

Will we remain shackled until the end?

Claire Franky
4 min readFeb 26, 2024


Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash

My eyes sprung open. The dark, purple ceiling seemed to be closing in on me. My arms lay by my sides; they felt heavier than normal. Something hard was behind my head. Something hard was beneath my body. I shuffled slightly. It was a table. I was lying on a table.

I don’t remember drinking tequila.

A crackling sound caught my attention but I wasn’t sure where it was coming from. Perhaps behind me or in front of me? Maybe both. I tried to sit up but my body didn’t move.

Frustrated, I clenched my fists and felt it on my wrist. Something cold. Metal maybe? Uncomfortable. I turned my head to the left and glanced down. It was a handcuff.

Oh, I definitely drank tequila.

The handcuff was attached to my left wrist. My eyes followed the chain to a second wrist. Not mine. A mans. I gazed up his gray t-shirt to his upper arm where I saw it. The tattoo.

Oh, no. For the love of twatting swans, no.

It was him. I glanced up at his face. My husband lay beside me on the table, asleep. We were handcuffed together.

Butterflies filled my tummy and my eyes widened. I stared at his peaceful face. I hadn’t seen…