25. Sarah
25. Sarah
The noise wakes me with a jolt and it takes me a couple of seconds to get my bearings.
Danny’s house. The sofa. I must have dozed off as I waited with Annie for him to come home.
I hear the noise again, a crashing sound coming from the kitchen.
Annie is already out of her armchair. A coiled spring of anxiety and relief.
‘Danny?’ she calls out. ‘Is that you, love?’
Another crash, and this time I hear the sound of china smashing on to the floor.
Annie makes it to the kitchen first and raises her hands to her cheeks in alarm.
Danny is staggering by the sink, a bottle of vodka swaying in his hand, filthy faced and filthy drunk. Annie’s precious mixing bowl – which I carefully washed last night and left to dry on the draining rack by the sink – is in pieces by his feet.
‘It’s okay, Sarah,’ Annie says, holding an arm out to stop me going into the kitchen. ‘It’s just a bowl.’
I look at her exhausted face, see the tears in her eyes.
‘But it isn’t just a bowl, is it?’ I say, suddenly furious. ‘Look at the state of him. Look at the state of us .’
I know I shouldn’t be this angry. I know it’s not fair.
It’s Danny’s chronic PTSD that drives him to drink. And it’s the drink that triggers his moods, stops him caring about his behaviour, his appearance. About us.
But I can’t help myself, I’m so tired. Tired of all of it.
Everything I’ve seen, all that pain, all that loss.
Putting my life on hold.
Watching Danny wrestle with his demons. Staying out all night, with people who couldn’t care less about him, while we wait anxiously at home.
I feel like a doll that has had all the stuffing pulled out of her.
‘Please, Danny,’ I beg. ‘Please stop doing this.’ I start to cry. ‘Please let us help you.’
Annie puts her hand on my shoulder.
Danny is staring at us both but his face is blank, as if he has no idea who either of us is. He makes as if to reach for a weapon he no longer carries, then, staggering, he lunges forward.
I rush in front of Annie and grab his arm. ‘Please, Danny, don’t –’
He throws me against the wall. ‘I don’t need your fucking help,’ he yells, and stalks upstairs.
Annie crouches down beside me. ‘Are you okay? Has he hurt you?’ She starts to sob. ‘I’m so sorry, Sarah, I’m so sorry.’
I register her face in front of mine and I hear her talking. But I don’t see her or hear her.
Because suddenly all I can think about is seeing Carl tomorrow at the dance rehearsal.
Danny is ill, I know that.
We’ve been together a long time, I know that too.
But for all our history, all his pain, I also know I can’t do this any more.