13 Everleigh Forgot Your Roots—Buffalo Traffic Jam
Everleigh
Forgot Your Roots—Buffalo Traffic Jam
Attempting to steady my shaking hands, I tuck the clean razor blade back into its jewellery pouch. Keeping it stashed in my vast collection is the safest place. Nestled beside jewels worth more than most family homes, my dirty little secret stays hidden.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Wonderfully fierce pain leaks from the soles of my feet. I’ll keep them wrapped and tucked into socks until the cuts scab over. To some, I’m sure my secret habit is disgusting. Christopher would certainly think so.
But some days, it’s the only thing that gives me the strength to carry on. I often forget where it ends and the real me begins. Truthfully, I don’t know who that is anymore.
I’m an idea.
A label. A commodity.
Seeking the sweet relief of slicing my skin to elicit a blood spill pierces that numbness long enough for me to suck in air. Then the tide drags me back under, and I’m drowning in the depths all over again.
The cycle repeats.
At the sound of banging downstairs, I startle and rush to check my reflection. Not a hair out of place. I’m wearing a pre-approved outfit—cream shift dress and demure stockings—that should spare me some vitriol.
“Everleigh! Get down here!”
Terror laces every footstep down our grand double staircase, onto the Victorian parquet flooring that our housekeeper maintains impeccably. Christopher’s cursing emanates from the rear of the townhouse.
“Everleigh!” he screams.
“I’m coming.”
“Now! Hurry up!”
Through filigree-laced marble counters and spotless appliances, the kitchen opens up into a large pantry and utility room. I rarely come in here. It’s the staff’s domain, and Christopher screamed himself blue the last time he caught me talking to them.
Pulling up short, my vision dims until it’s solely focused on the half-naked, rumpled image of my beloved husband. At his feet rests a bloodstained dress shirt and torn suit jacket, hastily cast aside.
He hisses, battling to kick off fitted black trousers. On his back, deep-red slashes form an almost-perfect crescent. Perfectly proportional to the shape of nails being raked over exposed flesh.
“Christopher.” I baulk, hands flying over my mouth.
“Don’t just stand there, you stupid fool. Help me get these goddamn trousers off!”
“But . . .”
“Now, Everleigh! Do as you’re told!”
Resting against the spate of fancy laundry machines and dryers, he lifts a foot for me to assist. I swallow my protest, ducking around bloody clothing to tug the trouser leg.
Not only is his back injured, a cut marks the corner of his mouth too. That fact filters in while I strip the trousers from his muscled legs, adding them to the pile. In fact, there’s a bruise darkening his face as well.
“Christopher . . . your face.”
“What about it?” he snarls. “Do you have something to say?”
My whole body recoils in fear. “No, no.”
“Then do us both a favour and don’t open your mouth. You should know better than that by now.”
Slender arms flexing, he pushes off from the cupboard, sparing the bloodied clothes an offended look.
“Clean those with bleach.”
“But what happened?” I stare at his bruising cheek.
I’m unprepared for the strike. My husband has ruined the last year of my life since our wedding, but he doesn’t get physical. His power is in cruel words that take the form of acid, far more destructive than any blow.
His palm lashes against my cheekbone, causing my head to wrench to the side. I trip and stumble, crashing into the wall from the sheer force of it.
“I gave you an order, wife! Fucking do it!”
“I’m s-s-sorry,” I bleat in terror.
“You’re already a freeloading waste of space. Don’t become truly worthless to me too or you won’t like what happens next.”
He leaves me cowering against the wall, clutching my stinging face. Blood coats my tongue, searing from where I’ve bitten down. The room spins, blurring drunkenly, allowing my brain to find a safe detachment.
The tears stream silently as I crouch to gather up his dirty clothing. In places, the blood is crusted and dry. A couple of spots remain wet where it’s saturated the expensive fabric.
My sob becomes audible when I smell floral perfume on the dress shirt’s collar. It soon vanishes underneath a carpet of bleach in the washing machine. I don’t need to ask why it’s my job to clean these and not the housekeeper’s responsibility.
He doesn’t want her to see.
Me? I have to keep his secrets.
Because Everleigh Banks does not exist outside these high, lonely prison walls. She has no money. No family. No friends. And no means to escape his never-ending control.
So I’ll do as told.
And ask no more questions.
The unwrapped cuts and grazes on my palms ache from scrubbing my hands. Brilliant crimson bubbles up, but the feeling of old blood won’t go. No matter how hard I attack the invisible stain that seemed to have sunk beneath my skin and never dissipated.
I should’ve taken my chances that night. Fled the house and tried my luck alone like I’m doing now. I knew something was heinously wrong. It would take a naive child to disregard all the signs that pointed to one conclusion.
But still I buried and dissociated. For years. I allowed the world to continue thinking that Christopher and our perfect marriage were the gold standard that all should aspire to. I fed into the lie that allowed him to remain hidden.
Pulling the wedding band from my borrowed sweats pocket, my thumb traces over the engraved date. Of course, it survived the fire tucked inside my wallet. This cursed object will follow me until I make right on my sins . . . and his.
“I’m so sorry,” I quietly weep. “You deserved better.”
Still those meaningless numerals taunt me. A date with little significance when it belongs to a total stranger. Not a mistress. Not even a fling.
But another victim.
Another me.
My back-breaking cries turn into snivels in the dead of night. I hope Sterling and Leo are fast asleep. There was no one around when I snuck out of the cramped box room mid–panic attack to locate their downstairs bathroom.
Soul stripped bare and bleeding, the memories are still fresh despite the years that have passed. That’s the thing about regret. It never quite leaves you, even if you convince yourself the price is paid.
I’d love to drop this lump of gold into the drain and watch it disappear, taking Christopher’s secret with it. But if I do that, I might as well have left it behind to be erased along with any other evidence of his depravity.
No.
I can’t do nothing.
Something in me had the forethought to take it with me when I ran. Under layers of conditioning after enduring his abuse, part of me wants to fight. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have ensured we’ve got the necessary ammo.
At the sound of a door clattering, I stash the ring in my pocket, then splash my face. It’s after three in the morning. I don’t know who is awake at this hour, but I’m not looking to explain what has me up.
Composed, I slip out of the bathroom and pad through darkness into the kitchen. It’s rustic and homely. Dark oak cabinets meet hewed counter-tops, a large ceramic sink, and a matte-black range, the hearth crackling to heat the oven.
My father believed the table is the heart of the home. He preached that message throughout my childhood until the day he died. In Sterling’s cottage, it’s proven true. The table is vast, a beautiful, farmhouse-style slab of wood that beckons to be sat around and enjoyed.
“Oh.” I halt in place. “Hi.”
Carrying a bundle of neatly chopped logs in from the entrance hall, Fletcher flicks me a brief look. He’s bare chested, wearing low-slung pyjama bottoms in a dark-blue plaid print that reveals a defined V pointing south.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
He silently dismisses me, using his phone torch to light the way and drop a couple logs next to the hearth. When he moves to the adjacent snug, I bite my lip, following him in. Fletcher crouches in front of an unlit log burner, piling up the wood.
This is easily my favourite room in the cottage. Cosily cramped with beamed ceilings, a red-brick fireplace, and three sagging tartan sofas cluttered with knitted blankets, it screams of old British charm. Far from the stark palace I hated upon moving to Marylebone with my new husband.
“You couldn’t sleep?” I linger in the doorway.
Glancing over his shoulder, Fletcher shrugs.
“Me neither. It’s so quiet out here I could hear myself thinking too loud.”
He gestures towards one of the empty sofas. I take the invitation to sit and cover myself with a blanket, content to watch him scrunch up old newspaper and light kindling to get the burner going.
For a man covered in burn scars, he sure does have an affinity for fire. They’re on full display in his current state of undress. I can’t help studying the inches of mottled pink flesh across his neck, pectorals, and torso.
The patchwork extends beyond what’s usually visible. Vast swathes of his muscle-corded shoulders and chest are affected. One bad patch on his right side has symmetrical edges. A skin graft. It’s slightly discoloured, standing stark against his other scars.
“Leo mentioned you have insomnia. Is it every single night?”
I’m half expecting him to ignore me. Instead, he offers a single nod.
“Bad dreams?”
Another nod, this one wearier.
“Me too. The past feels real when you’re alone in the dark with nowhere to hide from it.”
He halts to glance at me questioningly.
“I get night terrors too,” I admit with a small shrug.
Tiny sparks lick at the log he’s placed inside, gradually building in size. Fletcher blows on the flames with more tender care than the force that crippled him warrants. Curiously, he shows no fear of it. Or perhaps this is all a performance to himself to prove that fear can’t control him.
The log burner illuminates the night with inviting orange light. Once he’s satisfied with his handiwork, Fletcher clicks the door shut, then extinguishes his phone torch to watch the fire crackle.