It was a rainy Cuban night in a backstreet bar in Santa Clara, and I was drowning my sorrows with excessive amounts of alcohol. It was my gap year, just another miserable day in the year of ’99 for a young man exploring his sexuality. Little did I know this day would change my life. After I downed my sixth pint, a lonesome man came and sat next to me and bought me another drink. Despite the aura of intense discontent, this man’s eyes shone, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. His cheekbones were well defined and his jawline was exquisite; a creature too perfect for the unholy surroundings. He caught me staring at him.

“Hey, I’m Jeremiah,” he said, “Jeremiah Rodriguez. But you can call me Jeremy.”

“H-hi…” I stuttered rather awkwardly, taken aback by his forwardness. Did he know we were in a gay bar?

Soon enough however I managed to gain my confidence. Perhaps Jeremiah’s patience helped me along, but soon enough we were deep in conversation. We had a lot in common; we liked the same things and we both seemed to be going through rough patches in our young lives. Somehow I just felt a connection… like we clicked. I knew he felt it too. I could tell by the way the night melted away and for the first time in months, I felt a smile creep into my lips. When the night was over we traded contacts with the intent to meet again. I really wanted to see Jeremy again.

After a few weeks together, I had to leave for the UK, my home. Except I didn’t want to go. Jeremy was my home. But just as I was tearfully making my way to the airport, Jeremy spryly bounded up to me with a suitcase and a bag. He had bought tickets to fly to the UK. He was coming back with me! I laughed and gave him a tight hug, not caring about the attention we attracted.

We spent a few years in England together. Despite Jeremy’s occasional frustrations, we were happy, albeit with a sort of restrained passion. We tried not to attract public attention. After all, it was frowned upon to be gay. Then, one monumental day, we were watching the television, when history was made. It was the 1st of April 2001 when the Netherlands legalized same-sex marriage. We booked tickets for Holland immediately.

We got married in a small Church on the outskirts of Venlo. It was a quiet marriage, the only guest was my sister Helen. Jeremy couldn’t reach any of his family. The weather was still and the birds sung overhead, as if nature was anticipating our union. Yet we were ecstatic. Perhaps this marriage wouldn’t be accepted back in the UK. But between us, we knew that there was a real connection, regardless of where we were. How queer it was to hear the priest say:

“You may kiss the groom.”

Soon after, we adopted a child together. The lady at the adoption agency gave us a dirty look, but didn’t stop us. We took our child Theresa home and did our best to raise her, but her young life may have been better away from us.

This was when the problems started. Jeremy would always come back from work angry. It started as just a temper, but soon enough, it turned into beatings. We fought almost every night, screaming at each other while Theresa was in bed. I’m sure she heard every word, as often on mornings, I found her pillow to be damp with salty tears. Usually I would often take hits from Jeremy in order to stop him from taking out his anger on Theresa. She was beginning to feel increasingly like my child, instead of hers. Soon, I found myself wanting to escape. There was no longer any joy in the relationship, but only pain, both physical and emotional. However, I felt like I was forced to stay. We had a child, and there was always the thought in my mind that I could never find anyone else, which Jeremy never failed to remind me of.

“You need me,” he would say. “If it wasn’t for me, you’d be drifting between bars like a loner, you damn drunkard. You’re lucky to have me. Without me you’ll have no-one.” I couldn’t take it. We began to sleep in separate rooms. I steered clear of Jeremy, but he always seemed to actively seek me out…as if… he got some sort of twisted pleasure from inflicting suffering upon me.

This continued for many years, a cycle of suffering, until one day I decided I wanted a divorce. Jeremy said I would regret it, but I didn’t care, and with the help of Helen, I hired a solicitor. And so began a legal battle that spanned 2 years. Despite everything I had gone through at the hands of this… demon, I lost everything. Jeremy took the property and Theresa. It seemed his charm was reserved for others, as I never saw any of it. I will never forget Theresa’s face before she was taken away. Scrunched up, with eyes full of tears. I was the one who had protected and cared for her all this time, not Jeremy, and she knew it. She was dragged away screaming. The tortured cries of her wavering voice were the last things I ever heard of her. Despite being atheist, I whispered a little prayer. Theresa wouldn’t last a day. Even now I wonder about her, but I guess I’ll never know.

After this, Helen took me to live with her and Stephen, her husband. She took care of me like a mother and helped me to find work. Despite being mentally scarred, she was always by my side, ready to comfort me during my next breakdown. She fed me, she clothed me and she sheltered me. I felt really bad for doing so many horrible things to her when I was younger, for she was like an angel on Earth. I spent 6 months within Helen and Stephen’s care, and for the first time in years, I began to relax and feel calm. I felt free.

But this wasn’t the end of Jeremy, however, as what seemed like an empty threat before was soon terrifyingly fulfilled. I was strolling down Bramley Street on a cold January night when a group of men in balaclavas wielding metal bars walked up to me.

“There he is,” the biggest one said to the others.

Their accent was unmistakably Cuban. I remembered Jeremy used to be part of a gang before meeting me. It seemed he had kept ties close this whole time. But I didn’t have much time to think before they jumped me. 4 men against 1 scrawny gay. I was brutally beaten to within an inch of my life. I heard my bones audibly shatter, while my face was shoved into the concrete. An hour later, passerby found me, and called an ambulance. I blacked out. When I came to, Helen was sitting next to me, watching me with eyes of concern. She ran her fingers through my hair as she told me the news.

“It’s horrible,” she whispered. “A broken leg, a fractured collarbone and a dislocated shoulder. Not to mention numerous cuts and bruises, which were infected by the filth of the street.”

She watched me for a few seconds before her eyes welled up with tears and she began to cry. Two minutes later and worse news was to come.

“When the doctors were doing their tests…” Her voice wobbled. “They discovered something in your blood. You… you have AIDS.”

Helen burst into tears again, and hugged me. I would’ve hugged her back, but my movement was restricted by the splints enveloping my delicate body. My life was over. Jeremy had truly ruined my life. In fact he was going to end it. When Helen left, my mind began to spin with thoughts. Had Jeremy been planning to ruin my life all along? Was he really THAT sick to find pleasure in my destruction? Did he take advantage of a vulnerable, inquisitive young man? I thought about my sexuality. Jeremy had scarred me so much that I had begun to lose faith in men. It took me a while for me to even trust Helen’s husband. Besides, Helen’s care had demonstrated the merits of females. Lately, I had caught myself looking at other women. Did Jeremy make me gay? I thought about all the abuse and looks I had gotten from others for being attracted to other men. What if I never met Jeremy? Could I have avoided that? And what about the marriage? Did Jeremy organise it to ensure it would be harder to escape? To force me into a legal battle which cost me my time, money and emotions? Did Jeremy convince to me to adopt a child just to snatch her away from me? I bet Theresa wasn’t even in Jeremy’s care anymore. I was almost certain Jeremy organised the beating, but there was no way I could prove it. As if I could get someone arrested just because I heard their accent. Finally, did Jeremy give me HIV deliberately? Did he know? These thoughts swirled around my head. The logical side of me tried to convince myself it was all a coincidence, just a silly conspiracy. But most of me wanted to believe that Jeremy was behind at least some of it. Ultimately, all I could do was blame myself for trusting him. For being so gullible and naïve to think that another man would make me happy.

So, that is my story. The doctors have only given me a month or so to live, so I wrote this to warn other people of manipulators. And dear God, I know I’ve disappointed you in life, but please hear this plea. Jeremy will almost certainly never be punished on this Earth, so I beg of you, if you exist, send him to Hell. If anyone sees Helen around, please treat her well. She’s too good for this world. I hope that all who read this will be more like Helen and less like Jeremy. This is my final wish.