You Once Belittled Me Chapter 1

My stutter kept me in a car repair shop for five years.

The only person who truly listened to me was my girlfriend of five years, Anna, who lived with me in the run-down city block.

To deliver a smooth speech at our wedding,

I practiced talking every day with a pebble under my tongue.

The day I finally stopped stuttering,

I was waxing a car,

my mind consumed with images of my wedding to Anna.

Suddenly, an arrogant male voice cut through my thoughts:

"Hey Stutter Boy, is my car fixed?"

It was the owner, here to pick up his car.

I gave a strained smile and handed him the keys.

As he raised his hand, the diamond watch on his wrist glinted, hurting my eyes.

He tossed a stack of hundred-dollar bills on the ground,

glancing at me. "Keep the change. My wife's coming to pick me up."

As I bent to pick up the money,

a pair of familiar white stilettos entered my field of vision.

"Honey, that half-million dollar limited edition sports watch you mentioned, they have it in stock today."

I instinctively looked up. The moment my eyes met hers, the banknotes scattered from my fingertips.

It was Anna, who always claimed to be allergic to motor oil,

and had never once set foot in the auto repair shop where I worked.

* * *

Anna's gaze lingered on me for barely a second before shifting back to the young man.

"There, there, darling. Your wife will get you a year-long membership here."

Dean, with his arms around her, chuckled.

"Honey, he's such a stutterer. He sounds so silly and clumsy when he talks."

Anna giggled, ruffling the boy's hair.

"No one's as witty as my baby. You're the biggest chatterbox."

He leaned down and kissed Anna's forehead, then looked at me with a smirk.

"Stutter Boy, why are you always so grimy? Guess you're only good for dealing with car parts."

My fists clenched tightly, my throat bobbed twice, but I said nothing.

Compared to him, I certainly looked grimy.

To earn enough for a down payment as quickly as possible,

I worked from six in the morning until midnight every day.

The broken-down cars in the shop were tough to fix,

and I often got scratched and bruised by metal parts,

always gritting my teeth to get the job done.

Marrying Anna was my most steadfast goal for the past five years.

In the five years we'd been together,

I only had two pairs of worn-out work clothes to rotate, so I naturally looked rough.

"I—" I had just started to question Anna,

when her hand slamming a bank card onto the counter interrupted me.

"My husband says you're silly when you talk, so just keep quiet."

"There's ten thousand in this card. From now on, you're responsible for servicing his car."

Through the blurry vision in front of me,

I thought I saw Anna from when we first got together.

Back then, I was so self-conscious I dared not enter stores,

afraid people would disdain me for my stutter.

She was the one who encouraged me, often patiently listening to me practice speaking for an hour or two,

never once showing impatience.

Because of her, I found the courage to get a job,

and first understood what it felt like to be cherished.

But now, she said I was silly when I talked, telling me to keep quiet.

I swallowed the bitterness in my throat and nodded.

The raw wound under my tongue, chafed by the pebble, throbbed faintly,

but it was nothing compared to the dull ache in my heart.

Dean looked at his custom shirt, stained with motor oil,

frowning and pouting. "Honey, look, this car got oil all over me."

"This shirt is a new limited edition, cost tens of thousands, and now I can't even wear it."

Anna smiled, leaning in to rub his neck, her voice full of indulgence.

"It's okay. You're handsome no matter what you wear. I'll buy you new ones."

The boy pouted, then, wrapping his arm around Anna, he headed out.

I stood rooted to the spot, uncontrollably shivering.

For five years,

before going home, I would shower and change clothes at the shop,

terrified of carrying even a hint of gasoline smell.

All because Anna said she was allergic to motor oil.

A year ago, I was so tired I missed a tiny oil stain on my cuff.

Anna saw it and immediately her face fell,

she grabbed my blanket, took it to the sofa, then closed the bedroom door.

That night, I curled up on the sofa and slept,

the next day, I spiked a 104-degree fever.

I looked at my faded, twenty-dollar work clothes,

and suddenly forced a bitter smile.

Laughing at my own foolishness, my own naivety.

Turns out, Anna wasn't allergic to motor oil,

she was allergic to me.

And in her eyes, I only deserved to wear twenty-dollar clothes.

My phone rang. It was a message from Anna.

The message was short, just like every other reply from her.

[Don't overthink it. I'll explain tonight when I get back. Dean is only eighteen, you'd best not say too much in front of him.]

Something inside me snapped.

Anna, who at 22 told me she'd always listen to me.

Anna, who at 24 said she'd marry no one but me.

Anna, who at 26 held me and said I was the love of her life.

The Anna I knew, she was dead.