March Again #2
Jesy: Maybe.
Jesy: I can’t help but think I’ve probably just fucked everything.
Isla: At the risk of you taking another tantrum, you might have. And unfortunately, you have to live with that.
Jesy: Well, thank you Ms. Positivity.
Isla: Sorry. But I’m not going to coddle you.
Isla: What I will say is that I’m utterly convinced that man was madly in love with you. And that doesn’t go away just because someone does something cunty.
Isla: I think he’ll come around. You’re just going to have to learn some patience.
Jesy: Right. I used to be good at that once upon a time.
Isla: Ah, Jes. Look. You did a bad thing. You’re trying to make amends. And you are in the best position of your life to focus on you now. I know you’re thinking about Brian. I know you want a response. But the world is your oyster, chicken. It’s time to start making a start, you know?
Jesy: I love you.
Isla: Babe. Love you endlessly.
Jesy
There’s something both insanely comforting about my childhood bedroom, and yet profoundly humiliating. Who would have thought I’d end up back here jobless, homeless and with my love life in tatters?
And yet, the room smells warm and familiar.
I feel safe and cocooned away from the world.
For the first time in a long time, nothing is expected of me.
There isn’t someone waiting for me to serve their meals or fold their clothes.
I’m not expected to give up my time to suit someone else’s schedule.
My clothing choices aren’t a source of daily embarrassment and shame.
I’m free.
That’s not to say I’m not pulling my weight around here! I actually think Mum is getting annoyed that she doesn’t have anything to do. But I don’t know how else to thank my parents for their generosity and understanding.
I’ll figure it out.
I grab another box and go through the piles of shite Jerry has had sent to the house. Everything I’ve ever touched, worn, sat on, slept on, has made its way to my parents’ house over the past month, shoved into boxes.
While it’s nice to have my belongings back, it hasn’t been plain sailing.
Clothes have been returned stained with bleach, books with entire pages ripped out. My laptop charger cut with scissors, my shampoo bottles deliberately left open.
It’s just stuff my mum said. All replaceable.
And I agreed with her for the most part. At least until I received a parcel of all my adult toys. Not only was that uncomfortable to open with my dad in the room, Jerry (at least I hope it was him and not Thomas), had pleasured himself over the box.
His… Well.
It was all over my toys. And given the sheer amount, I suspect he’d done it multiple times.
The box went straight into the bin along with every feeling of violation I felt. A shiver runs up my spine at the memory, a feeling of shame and something else I can’t quite put my finger on.
“Not all feelings of violation apparently,” I mutter to myself as I rummage through the box. After that incident, I learned to open them in my room to save us all the embarrassment and spare my parents from stuff they shouldn’t have to see.
I’m almost positive this is all junk from my desk and can be immediately thrown away when a crumpled piece of paper catches my eye.
I pick it out of the box and smooth it out, reading the familiar words I wrote months ago.
You’d be forgiven for not recognising the name Meadowcraig.
It doesn’t sit on the main road, and you’d have to strain your eyes to find it on a map. It’s one of those blink and you’ll miss it places, tucked away in the Scottish Highlands, making no effort to announce itself to the world.
I feel a little flutter of excitement in the pit of my stomach as I hold on to the page in both hands.
The first page of what was supposed to be my book before Jerry so sweetly told me it wasn’t going to happen.
Well, fuck you, Jerry.
I toss the rest of the contents of the box and leave my battered page on my bed. Reaching for my phone, I bring up Brian’s number and type a message without thinking.
Found the introduction to that book I wanted to write. Seems like now is as good a time as any.
I just wanted you to know.
Within seconds, I get the delivery failure notification and my heart sinks.
He’s blocked me. He must have.
I know I deserve it, but damn it stings. It makes the chances of getting a response to my letter a lot less likely.
Panic grips my heart, tears blur my vision.
But before anything can take hold, there’s a knock at the door and ma’s kindly face in the doorway.
“Sorry to disturb, darling. You have some mail.”
“No worries,” I say, pushing myself to my feet. “I was gonna bring this stuff down anyway.”
“Give it here,” she replies, pushing the door further open and holding out her hands. She’s got that look on her face that tells me not to argue so I hand her the box from Jerry.
“Thanks, Mum.”
She nods once, her eyes looking over the top of the box. “Nothing important then?”
I shake my head. “Not really. I think he’s running out of things to send, honestly.”
“Good. I’m quite tired of hearing from him.”
“Ah, Mum. I did cheat on the bloke,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “A bit of retaliation is expected.”
“Let’s not pretend he was a saint, Jesy,” she sniffs. “I know you did wrong, but he’s taking things a bit far now, pet. We should have called the police after—”
“Let’s not think on it, eh, Mum?”
“Right. I’ll go get rid of this then. You check your mail and we’ll have a nice cup of tea and a biscuit, hm?”
“Sounds great,” I say with a smile. “I’ll be down in five.”
“Take your time,” she replies, already leaving the room. I flick through the post and pull a face as each one reminds me of my dire situation.
I need a job ASAP. I can’t live off my savings forever.
I’m about to abandon the post and check the local job listings when I see it.
My own familiar writing, carefully written across the envelope and a big old strike through Brian’s address.
Return to Sender
Recipient no longer at this address.
WHAT?!
That can’t be right. It can’t be. He wouldn’t leave without telling me. He wouldn’t.
It wouldn’t be fair, and he’s not that cruel.
Not cruel like you.
“Oh, fuck off!” I say to no one in particular, sinking on to my bed.
First the message failure and now this. I’m reading him loud and clear.
Brian Trainer has left the conversation.