Editor's note:
The following piece addresses themes of domestic abuse
My mobile rings suddenly and I’m gripped with an immediate fear. It takes a few seconds to calm myself down before I shake my head, feeling stupid and press it to my ear. I exhale. It’s only a business call from a PPI company.
The phone is dropped back onto the bed again and I curl up next to it. Why hadn’t I bothered checking the number before answering the thing? Next time, I must remember to do these checks. There was no room for error.
I sit in front of the television, just staring at the inkiness of the black screen before I remember that I don’t need to ask for permission. I turn on my favourite channel, trying to push down the feelings of guilt as I’m allowed to watch whatever I want. I turn off the television half an hour later, I didn’t want to overexert my free will and take the mickey. There was more housework to be done.
Later, I open the freezer and stare blankly at the items inside. My eyes are immediately drawn to the various favourites I’d cooked over the years and set down at the dinner table. I try to forget in the many years I’d made meals, just how much of it actually ended up being consumed as opposed to ending up on the floor, or the walls. Automatically I reach for a box of Southern Fried Chicken, before remembering that I didn’t actually like it. Instead, I hesitantly reach for something else.
Someone knocks rapidly on the door. My heart jumps into my mouth and I immediately head for the upstairs wardrobe. My heart thuds painfully – who on earth would be knocking on my front door at 9:05pm? I close the wooden doors and sit, hunched in the dark – surrounded by clothes I didn’t like to wear. My phone buzzes indignantly at my side and it’s another number I don’t recognise.
“Open the door, Heather.” A voice floats from downstairs. I’m gripped with a paralysing fear as I try to place the voice of whoever had said that. A few moments later, the voice repeats again and I sigh in relief. It was only my friend.
I open the door after double checking through the peephole, letterbox and frosted window. It opens partially before Fran’s sympathetic face peers through the gap.
“Next time I come by, I’ll leave some extra time,” she laughs good naturedly and gestures to her work clothes for the night shift down at the local factory. “Just wanted to drop this by first, just to make sure you have it.”
I stare down at the printed slip of paper in her hands and it’s got a picture of a lily on it.
“I don’t need to discuss anything at a group,” I say softly. “These sorts of things aren’t meant for people like me. They’re for real issues. Real men and women with problems.”
Fran smiles, but it’s a sad one. “I think this would be right up your street, but I understand if you don’t want to go. I just wanted to make you aware that you have the option to.”
“I can’t.” I say automatically and try to search for an answer. There was nothing else that needed my attention that particular day and time. No one I needed to look after. But the very thought terrified me.
“I’ll drive you there if you don’t want to go alone.” She says softly.
A few days pass by and I wake up suddenly, feeling lost and confined. I struggle to remember the last time I left the house and as I pull on my oldest, baggiest clothes. I feel the urge to escape, get out into the fresh air and away from these four walls.
It wasn’t too long of a walk and I certainly wasn’t dressed for it, but I scuttled downtown and into the local church hall just off the high street. I was habitually early, but the lady running the session offers me to take the first seat as she mills around, getting everything set up.
Soon enough, others arrive and I’m surprised at just how much of a diverse little group this was. Men and women of all age groups, all walks of life. They sit around me, some not looking at anyone else at all. The last few rows of chairs fill up and the session is about to begin.
The chair beside me moves and I automatically lean my body away. A lady sits down, about my age. She’s fumbling around in her purse for a chewing gum before she sees me staring.
“Helps to keep my grounded.” She whispers and pops one in her mouth. She offers the packet to me and I realise that I have nothing left to lose. I didn’t want to hide in the wardrobe anymore.
“I’m Paige,” she introduces. “I didn’t expect to see this many people here! Still, it’s all for a good cause isn’t it? What brought you here today?” She turns to me and it’s the first eye contact I’ve had with anyone in a little while.
I open my mouth and struggle to summon any words to mind that would explain my situation. The intense ball of feelings that were tangled at the pit of my stomach. I swallow hard, feeling as stupid as I was once told multiple times.
“It’s OK. I was a domestic abuse victim too.” She says and smiles. I’m not immediately convinced – I could tell a forced smile from a mile away. What stops me is her use of past tense. She knows her smile is sad, but she doesn’t try to hide it. I blink rapidly for a few seconds and outstretch my hand to another human.
“It’s nice to meet you.” I say. And I mean it.
Juggling a full time career working with animals and writing late into the night, Holly Jane is an up and coming writer to watch for 2020 and is currently working on her first novel, scheduled for release within the next year.