Chapter 19
The warm rays from the sun break through the small gap of the curtains, sending a beam of light into the muted room.
My heavy eyes flicker open at the intrusion.
I must have slept pretty heavily last night.
Stretching out my aching limbs I spread my arm across the bed, finding it empty, a small sigh of relief escapes my mouth.
I assume Ricky slept downstairs last night after getting black out drunk, or went back to the office.
Either way, I’m thankful. I don’t think my mind or body could have taken another beating like the one yesterday.
The thought makes me run my fingertips over the gash that marks my forehead, the dried blood now flaking away like chipped paint.
My mind goes back to the harm I did on myself last night in the bath which has me lifting my arm to inspect the damage.
Pulling the sleeve up of the white pyjama top, the slices stare back at me.
The blood has crusted around the edges and, I run my thumb over the cuts, a stinging pain following its wake, but I welcome it.
It’s a pain I can control. That I have the power over.
Lowering the sleeve, I pull the heavy cover off of my body before swinging my legs out of the soft fabric to stand on the plush carpet, the small fibres squishing between my toes.
I make my way over to the small en suite bathroom that connects to our bedroom, turning the gold handle to open the door.
The cold tiles send a chill up my legs causing me to shiver all over as I flick on the small light switch, the room is suddenly illuminated in a white glow from the overhead spotlights.
The brightness caused me to wince, blinking my eyes several times until they were used to the light.
Turning on the taps a sudden flush of warm water splashes into the marble sink, the droplets speckling on the surface.
I cup both of my hands under the water, gathering it into my palms before splashing it onto my face, instantly waking me up, then I lift my head and come face to face with a person I no longer know.
My dull eyes trail over my face as I watch the droplets of water race against each other down my cheeks and nose, then dropping from my chin onto the counter.
Placing both of my palms flat onto the marble, the heavy diamond ring twinkling in the lights, I use the coldness of the sink to tether me in place.
If only me from the past could see me now, would she be disappointed in me?
Angry at me for getting myself into this situation?
I know I’m disappointed because I should have known better, it’s drummed into us at an early age to be wary of men, to protect ourselves, to never walk alone at night, to always be aware of our surroundings.
But what happens when a charming man with a killer smile easily dodges all those obstacles, a man who carries a weapon, a man who walks you home at night, is the one to hurt you the most. I was blinded by a false sense of security, a love I thought was so real that I gave up everything for it, because I felt like I deserved it.
I know I didn’t deserve this, no one deserves this.
I often ask myself what makes a person so cruel?
What sends them on this journey of terror and hate?
Is it in their nature, the way they were raised or is something wired not quite right.
I could spend the rest of my life trying to find these answers, but I already know I won’t be granted them.
After properly washing my face and brushing my teeth, I quickly clean the wounds on my arm then flick the light off and leave the bathroom.
Making my way across the wardrobe that’s built into the room, I slide the heavy door open, finding the same wash of creams and whites hung up in uniform order from blouses, skirts, trousers and sweaters. The view instantly depresses me.
How long will it be before I finally go insane?
Before I succumb to the darkness. To allow it to infiltrate my mind like a deadly virus.
To allow it to take over my system.
I wonder if I’ll go insane?
I scan through the contents, sliding hangers side to side to find.
. Something, anything. Landing on a button up cream blouse with long sleeves and a pair of simple trousers, laying the clothes on the bed, I step out of my pyjamas and throw them into the wash basket before turning to stand in front of the full length mirror, my empty eyes scan over every inch of myself.
The pale, blotchy skin almost looks translucent, like a rabid disease lies dormant underneath, waiting for the chance to burst free in a bloody mess.
The frail bones are starting to protrude under the strict diet Ricky still has me on, the thin skin stretching over the hard surface.
My fingers gingerly brush over the array of purples, blues and fading yellows that cover my skin like an oil painting.
Each mark is tender, causing me to hiss through my teeth any time my hands graze over them.
I feel broken, damaged and used.
Immediately, I look away from my reflection and get dressed, quickly covering up the imperfections before walking back to the open door of the wardrobe to grab my shoes, I notice the hold-all bag that’s shoved at the back, the one I’ve been secretly stashing with clothes, a pair of shoes, small toiletries, essentials and a small switch-blade I swiped from Ricky’s home office.
Everyday I make eye contact with it, to remind myself that I will get out of this prison.
That I can give this life up and start fresh somewhere new, where no one has any idea of who I am.
Tears start to well in my eyes but I push them back before they can even fall.
I refuse to cry because I need to be strong.
I need to be patient. I nod to myself before sliding the door closed again then slip my feet into my shoes, leaving the bedroom behind.
After cleaning the whole kitchen again for the third time today, my fingertips are tender and red from all the chemicals.
I go to move onto the next section of the kitchen when the doorbell rings.
The doorbell never rings. If we have any deliveries, they’re never for me, and all of Ricky’s purchases go straight to his office.
Placing the damp cloth and spray on the counter top I wipe my hands onto my pants.
I’m nervous, why am I nervous? What if Ricky is playing a cruel joke on me?
Testing me to answer the door. After taking a beating from speaking to our neighbour I flat out refused to leave the house again.
The only company I have is my own so the doorbell ringing is sending me off kilter.
I can do this.
It’s just the door.
I fist my hands then proceed to stretch out my fingers to ease some of the anxiety before stepping slowly towards the front door.
Coming face to face with the sleek wood, I press my face against it, peering through the peephole.
My brows furrow when I don’t see anyone, and I pull back to see if the bell rings again but it doesn’t.
I should back away and pretend it never happened, but what if someone is hurt? , and I’ve just walked away.
Turning away, I try to give myself a kick up the ass to just open the Goddamn door.
Ricky will never know, I could just pull it open and close it in a matter of seconds.
He’ll be none the wiser. My curiosity overrides the anxiety that’s swirling in my stomach.
Making the choice, I spin again to face the door and turn the heavy metal lock, hearing it click open, the noise echoes around the eerily silent house.
My hand trembles as I place it on the handle, sucking in a breath, I push it down in one singular motion.
I did it.
I opened the door.
Pulling the handle towards me I take a peak around the door through the gap, the noises of birds entering the home, the warm breeze fanning my face.
I bask in the simple pleasures of the outside world before getting back to the task at hand and open the door wider before taking a small step around the door, my foot coming in contact with a small brown box on the door mat.
Fear has me in a chokehold as I lift my gaze and scan the street to see if anything is out of the ordinary.
We live in a relatively quiet and safe area so it’s no surprise when I see everything exactly how it always is.
Quickly, I take a step back into the house, my focus locked onto the brown box, wary of its contents as if a dreaded creature will leap out and swallow me whole.
I crouch down to take a closer look and nothing seems to be strange about it.
Both ends of the box have been sealed in a clear tape and my name and address have been handwritten.
Wait, my name? And it’s my maiden name.
Bringing my hands closer to the box, my heart beats harshly through my chest as I inch closer until I have it in my grasp. Standing quickly I shove the door closed with my leg before making my way back into the kitchen and dropping the box onto the kitchen island as if it burned me.
Brushing my fingers over the surface, I trace over the hand writing, wracking my brain on where I’ve seen it before but coming up empty.