I knew why she wouldn’t call the police, why she never fought back, why she wouldn’t tell anyone. The reason was simple. Irene loved David, more than she had loved anyone, more than she loved herself. I stared into her teary black eyes and thought, love is strange. It comes in so many forms, hideous, heavenly, and bittersweet, you name it. Irene’s form of love was probably the strangest. It was a matter of ‘love over pain’, as long as she loved David, she would bear the endless pain he inflicted onto her. I believed she wouldn’t be upset even if he beat her to death. They say love is blind, but I know otherwise. Irene did not love David blindly, because he was, after all, a good man with good qualities provided you exclude his rotten temper, which was Irene’s price for loving him. Love comes at a price, and Irene’s pain was the price for loving David, and she was willing to pay the