Chapter 2
Two
Clara
The sun is out of sight, and a layer of fresh dew envelops everything, as if the night wept.
I cross my arms over my stomach, wincing at the fresh pain from hours ago.
It’s been a few weeks since that night, and I know I have to get out of here before Ryan hurts me so badly I won’t be able to recover from the damage.
As I sneak a cigarette before heading back to the kitchen and preparing him a perfect lunch, my mind swirls through the hopes and dreams I once had that have been stripped from me.
“Clara, you okay?” Burke’s deep voice makes me jump.
A forced smile replaces the tears welling in my eyes, the sweet facade I maintain for everyone near me. I never want to let others know how trapped I have become.
Leaving should have been my first thought, but now I'm drowning in a situation that is designed to make me feel like I can't escape.
“Good morning,” I whisper, glancing up at his friendly face. “Hope you have a great day.”
His icy blue eyes lock with mine, and I look down to the cement slab outside our patio doors.
“I should be back in a few days. Tell Ryan he’s gotta pay his rent. Just because I’m his father doesn’t mean he gets to slack off on his responsibilities.”
I nod and wave as I head inside.
Like I’m the one who will ask Ryan to pay the rent. Slipping off my slides, I make my way through the living room to get back to preparing his food, but I run into him instead.
“You couldn’t have made my lunch any better? I work all fucking day, and the best you can do was a ham sandwich? What the fuck, Clara?”
“Ryan, I’m sorry. There are more containers.” I brush past him and try opening the fridge. Anxiety fills me as my muscles tense.
He clutches my ponytail, jerking me back, and my scalp screams in pain.
When Ryan slams me against the wall, I stare into his hazel eyes and bite the inside of my lip. He grips my throat, squeezing until black spots cloud my vision.
“You’re such a worthless fucking piece of shit. Can’t even serve me like I deserve.” Ryan spits in my face and drops me before grabbing his lunch bag and heading out the door.
I crumple to the grey marble tile floor, using the bottom of my shirt to wipe my cheeks. Tears fall, and I feel as broken now as I did as a child. Useless, except for what I can provide.
Memories of my stepfather matching what happened today flood my mind, and pain seeps through my veins.
With no friends and a family who abandoned me long ago, my thoughts drift to Ryan’s father. I know I could reach out to Burke. He has tried a few times to help me.
Sometimes I wonder how it would have been to meet someone like him before the claws of abuse sunk into my skin. I don’t want him to think less of Ryan, or of me, for staying as long as I have.
This wasn’t supposed to be my life. I dreamed for years of escaping abuse and growing up to be free.
I had always hoped to break the cycle of a home filled with terror.
I vowed it would be different when I left.
Yet here I am in the safety net of violence, under someone else’s thumb and grasping at keeping the dark thoughts I’ve been having at bay.
Pulling myself off the ground, I run my fingers through my hair, checking for blood before I wander to the bedroom. I put on a pair of jeans and exchange my sleepshirt for a hoodie.
I’ve been covering for Ryan for so long that I’m concerned no one will believe me anymore, and the bruises from his touch are spreading like wildfire.
With my phone in hand, I decide I need to at least try. Using the non-emergency number, I wait to connect with someone.
“Hello, how can I help you?”
“Hi, I’m calling to report my boyfriend, Ryan Williamson. He’s um… abusive.”
“Are you in immediate danger, ma’am?” Her voice is gruff.
“No, but I might be when he gets home. It’s been happening for a while.”
The lady on the other end of the phone sighs. “Ma’am, you are free to go if you aren’t being held. Make the right decision. As for him, we can’t do anything until something happens.”
The phone is like a lead weight. Tears trickle down. “Thanks,” I say before hanging up.
This was my last resort—that the police would help me, that they would take this seriously and take Ryan away from me.
Darkness surrounds my vision, and tears fall until I can’t cry anymore. I really thought they would be willing to help me. I know if I leave he’ll find me.
Wiping my face with the sleeve of the hoodie, I get up. If the apartment isn’t clean when he gets home, there will be hell to pay.
It’s hard to believe how the woman could be so cold, making it seem easy to walk away when he would never allow me to leave.
Hours pass, and as I finish scrubbing the sink clean, the door slams. I flinch, inhaling a deep breath to get ready for the night. I’ve made his favourite dinner, beef stew, and hope for an evening with the nice guy I once fell for.
“Wanna know something interesting, Clara?” His irritated voice coats my nerves with tension.
I turn to him and smile, waiting for his news.
“A police officer called me at work today. I had to take a break. Boss man wasn’t so fucking happy about that. The police informed me they got a call from you. Apparently, I’m hurting you and you want to leave, but I’m keeping you here?”
I grit my teeth, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“Not so fucking chatty now, are you?” He throws his lunch bag at me and opens the fridge to grab two beers before heading out to the patio.
No, no, no. The police did nothing, but they weren’t supposed to put me in the bullseye. I can’t move. Dread courses through me. I can never do anything right.
Maybe I am the worthless whore they said I’d always be. My lungs feel empty, and I wish I could fucking disappear.
With a deep breath, I turn to the counter and wipe the spotless space. I don’t know how to smooth this over. There isn’t a word that can soothe the cracks I’ve caused.
“Clara, beer!” His voice flows through the apartment from the patio.
I hesitate before reaching for another two glass bottles, each filled with the poison that gives him the courage to rip me to shreds.
As I walk out to give them to him, I tread over the soft carpet, each step feeling like broken eggshells that tear at my soul. Fear is at least half of my blood type, and bile rises in the back of my throat with the unknown that lies ahead.
It wasn’t always this way. He was kind when I met him. Red flags popped up in the controlling winds that fluttered through our relationship. In hindsight, I missed crucial exits.
The first time he struck me, I should have left. Many breakups have sprinkled through our years together, but he always brings me back.
It’s like I’m tied to him, and I’ll never be able to break free from the hold he has on me.
“Sit.” His jaw clenches as he chugs the beer. Opening the other, he sips it and glances over at the backyard.
I settle into the wooden chair beside him. Nerves erode any armour I might have, and my heart is raw from the wait.
“You know, I always loved you. No one could hold a flame to you, not even the other bitches who blew me from time to time. But you don’t fucking quit, do you? Always with the theatrics—running away, and now this fun petty act of calling the pigs on me.”
“I’m sorry.” I pick at the peeling wood on the armrests of the chair, just like he removes the layers of my shattered existence.
“You’re not. You thought those coppers would help you?
Clara, I’m never leaving. You can never get away from me.
I’ll always find you. I’ll take everything you love and destroy it.
Mark my words, I’ll strip the flesh from your bones and dispose of you.
” His voice is chillingly quiet, each word dripping with promise and malice.
“What did you make me for dinner?” he asks, the words slurred. He’s had more than beer tonight.
“Beef stew.”
“Let’s go eat dinner, shall we?” He grins and rises unsteadily from his seat.
When I stand, he grasps my wrist and walks beside me to the sliding door.
Ryan's hand tightens around my skin, and his other slams me against the house. “You’ll never fucking escape me. I own you, cunt.”
He grips my hair and pulls me away from the house before rearing his fist to connect with my cheek.
As I fall against the bricks, he grips the base of my skull and presses me harder against the rough texture.
“I own you,” he whispers in my ear again before pushing me to the ground and walking into the house.
The physical pain is a fleeting bandage over the bleeding of my soul, a temporary distraction from the feeling which drowns the inside of my body. With small movements, I push myself up off the cement, open the door, and go in.
Dishes crash in the kitchen, and I slip down the hall to the bathroom.
A woman I no longer recognize is before me in the mirror. The sunken eyes reflect the fear and exhaustion running through me. The tears I want to let go harbour in my chest, waiting for the gate to open.
With damp tissues, I clean the blood from my chin.
My lip will heal. It’s been worse than this before.
The goose egg growing from my eyebrow isn’t going anywhere soon.
It’s stuck, just like me. An aching pulse radiates through my face with its own heartbeat.
It syncs with mine, and I open the medicine cabinet to take a couple of pain relievers.
“Clara!”
I jump at his voice, and panic chews at my muscles. I swallow the pills dry and wash my hands before heading to the kitchen.
“This tastes like shit. Why’re you fucking terrible at everything you do?” He slams the bowl onto the counter, and it shatters. Ryan staggers to the fridge and pulls another beer out of the side before sitting at the kitchen table.
Bottles must be lined up out on the patio. I’ll have to remember to clean them up.
“It’s your favourite,” I whisper. “I make it the same way every time.” I walk across the room, gathering the shattered pieces of the bowl and cleaning the brown liquid that spilled down the cupboard.
“All you do is fuck up. Today, you were the stupidest you’ve ever been. I’m gonna teach you tonight how much I own you. Betcha won’t be calling the fucking pigs again.”
The thought of his hands on me chills my blood. Whenever he’s angry, it’s like a monster possesses him, and I end up black and blue the next day.
“I promise I won’t call them again,” I tell him, knowing damn well I won’t as I wipe the counter. They will not assist me. Apparently, they put women in danger. Can’t help me until he kills me.
When I glance at Ryan, his head leans against his shoulder. The alcohol has dimmed him to the point of passing out.
A quick look at the clock shows it isn’t yet past eight, which means I’d have enough time to get to the bus station and leave town before he wakes up. I nudge his leg with my foot, but he doesn’t wake up.
Heart pounding, I rush to the bedroom, tossing clothes into my bag. I don’t have any money, but I know he is holding everything in his back pocket. Ever since I bought some makeup, he’s taken away my allowance, and I realize how fucked up this is.
I can never escape abuse. It will follow me for the rest of my existence. I’ve been a punching bag since I was a child; at this rate, I will never do anything but survive.
Men can’t just continually torture my body and cut into my soul, causing damage that will coat my future in nothing less than anguish and emotional scars.
Twenty-five years of punishment for a crime I never committed—my only offense was being born—living a lifetime of neglect and the psychological prison that I need to break free from. With no hope of change, my dark thoughts return.
Ending my life crosses my mind; I’d never have to deal with anything ever again. Freedom would greet me like a gentle kiss from the universe; however, those who’ve hurt me deserve a far worse fate than death.
Every person to leave a trauma imprint on someone needs to feel the wrath that protects me from the grief I can’t deal with.
Something cracks deep within, and I whip open the closet to grab his belts. I can’t leave because he will always find me, but if he’s dead, he won’t ever be able to touch me again.
His tongue will never lash me with wicked words, and I’ll be free.
Returning to the kitchen, I secure the belts around his wrists and the wooden chair armrests. I fasten his legs to the bottom rungs and move everything away from the table. I open the drawers and pull out our old set of knives and utensils.
Tonight will be the last time he ever fucking hurts me again. Dead men can’t own women.