Authors: Kirsten Rees
There was nothing I could say to explain what had gone on in that room or all the times before. I couldn't even explain it to myself.
All I could say to Anthony was "I'm sorry you were dragged into this, it was my fault."
"Sorry,
you're
sorry that your boyfriend (he almost spat the word out) beat you and tried to force himself on you." It wasn't a question; his eyes were incredulous because he knew that I was genuinely sorry he had to be involved. His eyes left my face and swept over my arms, a wistful look on his face.
"Please, tell me what it is exactly that you possibly could have done to deserve this?!" he said, his eyes wide and searching mine. I sighed, about to begin the excuses I always gave myself but something stopped me; I had been reciting them over and over like a script.
"Just take me home please." I pleaded, still not meeting his eyes.
I stared out of the window but nothing registered. It seemed like hours passed and then suddenly the passenger door pulled open and Anthony was tentatively reaching for me, helping me out of the car. I don't remember walking up the drive or the words he said to me before heading back to his car. I stopped in the porch to collect myself. I pulled a compact mirror from my bag and stood for a few moments in the semi-darkness wiping my tear stained cheeks and the dried blood from beneath my mouth. I couldn’t see the bruises on my arms, but I could feel them there so I grit my teeth as I slid into my jacket.
I didn’t dare turn on the light in case I woke anyone upstairs so I crept quietly upstairs in the dark, whispered 'goodnight' to my Mother and made my way to my room. As soon as my door closed behind me all sense of awareness faded. I can't remember if I changed into pyjamas or fell into bed fully dressed.
The following day I woke sometime in the late morning after a night of broken sleep. I didn’t want to wake up if all that was on offer was pain, and I fought with myself to go back to sleep but my mind refused. I lay flat on my back, breathing slowly and carefully, gasping through gritted teeth each time my ribcage rose and fell. The house was still so I climbed slowly out of bed, trying not to move more than necessary.
I knew my Mother had plans with my Grandmother and my brothers were going to be out all day; Matthew with his girlfriend Anna, and Joshua was making the most of his last few weeks of the summer holidays with his friends.
Turning on the shower, I stepped under the warm water to wash the blood from my hair and body and watched silently as the water at my feet turned red. Wrapping a towel around my bruised body, I retraced my steps back to my room. The pillowcase resembled a watercolour with the blood-stained patterns. It took nearly half an hour to strip and remake my bed. I almost couldn't bear to see my reflection, but I needed to see the damage in order to engineer a believable story for my family.
The brutal reflection in the mirror stared back at me. My muscles ached, my shoulder felt jarred and despite not waking until the afternoon I was exhausted. The blood had come from my lip and a cut on my head where I'd banged it during my fall to the floor. The girl in the mirror looked pale and tired and the marks on her body were turning an almost pretty shade of bluish-purple.
I had given myself to him and he had said he loved me but I’d angered him so much he had made me bleed. Did I make him do this - I asked myself the same questions over and over and in the years after I was never wholly convinced I wasn't somewhat to blame.
I crawled back into bed and a small part of me never resurfaced. The next few days are a blur. The only thing I remember clearly is the pain - every breath felt like a blow. A fall down the stairs was my plausible cover story for the bump to the head and the aches and I grumbled about it sufficiently enough that it wouldn't seem as if I was hiding anything, but then not so much that a hospital visit would be required.
Thankfully the party had been at the weekend and I wasn’t due in my part-time job until Thursday so I had a few days to recover at least and on my first day back I swallowed painkillers at every four hour intervals. For over a week after I managed to get by with only a few silent grimaces until the pain was more bearable but it was a struggle.
My phone had sat by my bed repeatedly vibrating and flashing its little blue light until I finally turned it off. When I did turn it on again the inbox filled up with messages. I lost count how many missed calls and text messages I received from him, at first pleading and apologetic then aggravated, impatient and finally angry and condemning. I had wanted time; it was all I had asked when I had sent one single text to him. I needed time to think but it was still on his terms. I knew what I needed to do but I'd put it off as if I could no longer make a decision that was my own. Staring at the faded burn mark on my arm I knew I had belonged to him but he had never really been mine.
I reached for my phone and before I could think about it I deleted his number and every single message. It didn't feel enough though, he could still contact me and I felt my resolve crumbling. How long before I gave in to him again? I couldn't end it; I would never be able to tell him how I felt when he had kicked me on the floor or explain why I needed to walk away.
Then
I realised he had no idea where I lived and since it was my Mother's name on the house he would have no way of finding me if he even bothered to so it eased the knot in my stomach a little. I scrolled my nearly empty phone book and realised it was so simple. I copied down the few numbers I needed like my family and a few acquaintances from school. Switching the phone off I pulled the SIM card from the side and dropped it on the floor. Smashing it was kind of cathartic.
Days passed, weeks came and went as August slipped in to September. Three quarter sleeves and leggings helped to cover the slowly fading marks on my arms, chest and legs - the marks on my upper arms were distinct finger marks and it would have
been
difficult even for me to get such a distinctly shaped bruise on my stomach falling down stairs.
I heard a knock on my door. “Nina?” came my Mother’s voice.
I forced myself to sit up properly and grabbed a book to cover the fact that I’d been staring at nothing for the best part of an hour.
“Come in Mum.” I returned.
It had been enough time that only the most severe marks on my body still showed. I saw the look of concern in her eyes - I’d spent most of the last few weeks at home, alone in my bedroom which wasn’t unusual for me but she couldn’t have failed to notice I’d avoided her as much as possible in the past few weeks. She sat on the bed and handed me a bowl of hot soup which I took and began to eat, I hadn't even realised I was hungry.
"I thought you might be a bit under the weather, you've not been yourself." she said kindly but it was more of a statement than a question.
I smiled and nodded as if in agreement which seemed to satisfy her a little. Before she could ask anything else, I turned the conversation to my brothers. It was almost too easy since my younger brother was forever in scrapes with money, girlfriends and career options, so it was enough to distract her until I could excuse myself with a mention of meeting one of my friends - most of whom I was no longer in contact with.
“Oh good, I thought you hadn’t seen much of them lately.” she replied.
“Well summer is coming to an end and I thought it would be nice to catch up with them before we all go our separate ways.” I said.
“Oh please don’t make it sound like your life is flying in so quickly Nina. You will have time for studying as well as old and new friends I’m sure!” she said as she got up to leave me to get ready. Thanks to the end of summer and the cooler weather closing in I had the perfect excuse to wear layers and cover the worst of the marks slowly fading on my body.
In fact my main relationship was an acute acquaintance with the inside of most of the shopping centres in the area, where I was on first name basis with most of the sales assistants. They were all so overly nice to me that I suspect they thought I was a mystery shopper since I spent so much retail time alone.
When I wasn’t wandering the aisles of retailers, I made myself get out of bed and go to work which was better than sitting staring at my bedroom wall all day. Partly because having too much time on my hands meant time to think and partly because my mother would start to suspect something was actually wrong. 'Feeling under the weather' also wasn't enough to keep me from my part-time job in the local book store because I genuinely loved it. All the new arrivals of books, the stories, the staff discount and even the customers were wonderful, since they weren't really big talkers other than directions to a particular genre or about how much they loved their favourite book.
It was a beautiful old store with a coffee shop downstairs and the owner encouraged people to spend as much time as they liked in the shop, so there were a few familiar faces that would come in and pass away a few hours reading. The larger stores just didn't get it, they thought people should come in, buy books and leave so they couldn't understand how he made enough money to stay open. Thankfully our buyers were fiercely loyal and for every book they read in store, they often bought a pile to take home too. It had such a warm atmosphere and yet it was hushed and respectful as if we were in a library. Like I said, I loved it, and so it upset me that everything that had happened with Chris was encroaching on my peaceful time.
That ‘defining moment’ in my life when I met Chris, at first I thought it was because he was going to be special and important in my life. Although it's taken me a long time to even speak his name aloud, I always keep his face in the back of my mind. I think perhaps I needed to remember what he looked like in case I ever saw him again. I often played it through in my mind, however, I’m ashamed to admit I would more likely hide again than face him.
My Mother did point out more than once that I wasn’t my usual self, yet she never demanded to know what was wrong. It had never been her way to intrude on the lives of her children unless we asked her to. She spent time with us to give the opportunity if we needed to talk and did so many little things for us that showed she cared. We spent many afternoons having hot chocolate and cake after long walks in the park but I never spoke a word of it.
I wish I’d kept a diary at the time though; it might have helped unload some of the feelings I had. I did used to write poetry although it was probably absolute rubbish. One day half way through a particularly dark piece my computer buzzed and the screen went black. There was no power cut or any obvious sign of damage to it but for some reason it had stopped working and I had lost my most recent piece. I sat there staring at it for several minutes desperately trying to remember the words that seemed so important at the time.
I remember the sound of my Grandmother’s laughter as I told her what had happened to my latest poem and she began riffling through a drawer before producing a little purple book. Working in a book shop I loved books dearly but when I opened it to find blank pages I was a little confused.
“It’s for your words. When I was a girl we used to write our thoughts and feelings in a diary and kept them hidden.” she said.
“Thank you, it’s really sweet of you.” I replied.
From that day on I never trusted technology to keep my words. Admittedly paper could burn up, the ink could run if it got wet and a sudden gust of wind was more than capable of separating me again from my efforts but somehow it reassured me. Perhaps that’s why I’ve committed this diary to paper. Since you’ve probably noticed this is black and fabric and not purple, I should explain I bought a new one since it felt too horrible to write a suicide diary in the notebook given to me by my wonderful Grandmother. Instead I filled that one with the few good things in my life - photos of people and places that I love and some memorabilia I cherish. I never did write another poem.
Thinking of that first notebook and my Grandmother, I tried to remember the times we spent together just the two of us when I was older. There were so few and I couldn’t remember every moment of them but I treasure those days. A few months after everything with Chris, she invited me to lunch which was not unusual but I hadn’t spent much time with her lately and it was rare that I had her all to myself.
We spent at least half an hour wandering around the town, chatting about nothing in particular before choosing a little café and sitting down to lunch.
“I’ve missed you my darling Nina. You’ve hardly visited this year.” said my Grandmother.
“I’m so sorry, I just had so much studying to do for exams, and now my new job and getting ready for University.” I replied.
“And I’m glad to hear you will be getting good grades because of that, but I suspect that is not the only reason you’ve stayed away. You have grown up so fast Nina, sometimes, I think a little too fast.” she commented.
“I’m nearly eighteen Grandmother, every little girl has to grow up one day.” I answered.
“Something tells me that little girl is already gone and now every time I see you it’s as if you are holding yourself so tight I keep waiting for you to come undone.” she remarked.
I’d been holding my breath while she spoke and so I had to take a deep intake before I could speak.
“Well I guess you know I’m not so good and there’s no point me denying it. When I was a child I thought you were psychic and it seems I was right.” I said.