Chapter 45 Anna
Chapter 45
Anna
I hear voices. I have done since I was a teenager, standing at the top of a cliff face, preparing to throw myself from it. First it was Mum and then, over time, came the others. All of them urging me to kill those who have wronged me, and I listen to them because I have no choice. Once I act out their wishes, they disappear and are replaced by the next one.
Of all my inhabitants, Ioana has spent the longest time with me, which is ironic, as she was never on my list. She is the result of me letting my guard down and allowing someone else to take advantage. She and I go through quiet and noisy spells, and for a while, I tuned her out. However, when I’m stressed or distracted, and my guard is lowered, she exploits the situation. Like now, in the aftermath of that detective’s death. It has brought about it a tension between Drew and I that exceeds anything we’ve ever experienced before. And Ioana has seeped back into me like a slow-releasing poison.
It hasn’t only taken that man’s death. The build-up to today has probably been months in the making. Ioana began her approach subtly – a stray thought here, a quiet word there, progressing every so often to a snatched sentence before I even realised these were not my thoughts but hers. Even then, I naively assumed I could take back control at will, and certainly didn’t imagine she could harm me to the degree she did a few years back, when she was at her most vocal. But slowly and surely, her quiet voice has loudened to a roar that I can’t ignore. She reminds me again and again of who I really am, the woman who people like Liv and Margot can’t see because I’m so well hidden.
And now she wants to punish me for not listening to her. She has worn me down. Today, I’m admitting defeat.
I have the house to myself. Drew is working, but to put my mind at ease, I check the Find My iPhone app and see he’s still on a delivery somewhere between Coventry and Birmingham. I assume that somewhere en route he will find a place to dump that detective’s body.
Then I make my way along the hallway and into the bathroom. There’s no need to lock the door. I remove my socks first, then jogging bottoms, fold them up neatly then place them on the lid of the wash basket. Then I position myself on the side of the bath, both feet resting in the tub. The shower head is next to me and the tap is within easy reach. Resting on the toilet tank is a box of super-absorbent sanitary pads, gauze and tape.
And my trusted Stanley knife.
I hate myself for giving in to Ioana but her voice turns the inside of my head into a pressure cooker. The only way to release the strain is to do as she says and cut myself. Only then is she appeased and I’m back in control of my life. Until next time.
I take the knife with the freshly attached blade and position it halfway down my left thigh, placing the tip upon one of my old, raised, diagonal scars.
‘Are you ready?’ Ioana asks.
I nod. I don’t know if it’s her pulse or mine pounding in my ears, and it doesn’t matter. Because after this moment, we are united by the same cause. Slowly, I begin to cut. The pain is sharp and I gasp, until the warm blood rises to the surface, leaving scarlet candle-wax drips down each side of my thigh. I’m slow and methodical and the relief is instant. And when I finish that line, I start on a second.
‘Keep going,’ she urges. ‘I need to feel how sorry you are for what you did to me.’
I do as she asks, daring to cut a little deeper, three or perhaps four millimetres under the surface now, and suddenly I’m no longer in control of my own hand. Now Ioana is guiding me, pushing me forward, controlling everything.
‘You can go deeper,’ she says. ‘It won’t do any harm, will it?’
‘No it won’t,’ I reply.
But we are both wrong. It does cause harm. Because without warning, I’m wrenched from my hypnotic state and thrust back into the reality of what I’ve just done. The pain is no longer pleasurable, and when I dare to look down through half-closed eyes, my blood is seeping to the surface like oil from a well.
Shit , I think, and drop the knife into the bath with a clatter. I grab a sanitary pad from the toilet lid and press it firmly against the wound, angry at myself for allowing Ioana’s influence to get the better of me. It’s been years since I last cut this deep, which put paid to me doing it again for a long time.
The room is silent aside from my short, sharp gasps. I know that Ioana has got what she wanted and has left me to clear up the mess. Immediately I regret being so weak. Why did I give in? Why do I keep allowing her to hurt me?
I lift the pad and again the blood flows. And this time, panic accompanies it.
I think about the explanations I’ll have to give, the lies I’ll be forced to tell. I was supposed to go lightly, so I could allow my thigh time to heal before my plastic surgery procedure on my large scar seven weeks from now. The letter arrived seven months ago with the appointment date. Today’s wound won’t recover in time. The surgeon will see what I’ve done to myself and she’ll delay the operation, because why would she waste her time putting me back together again when I keep finding ways to tear myself apart? She’ll refer me back to my GP, who will recommend another psychiatrist, but the NHS waiting list will be at least a year to eighteen months long. And when I do finally get to see someone, they’ll be another person I’m dishonest with and I’ll make false promises to, to get me back on the surgery waiting list. In three years’ time, I will be exactly where I am now, waiting for an operation and trying to shield myself from Ioana’s influence.
I momentarily consider calling Drew and asking him to come home and help me. He is the only person who knows my truths and vice versa. Despite all that divides us, he was protecting me from that detective, from the accusations that were about to come, the explanations I’d have to give. In one swift hammer blow, he provided us with a solution to a problem I hadn’t ever predicted. Then I decide against it. I can’t let him see me like this again.
I reach for the shower head and turn the tap on to wash away the blood dripping down my leg and from my still-seeping wound. I grab a towel and wish I hadn’t only bought white ones because I know from experience that blood stains won’t come out, no matter how many times I put them through a cold wash. I’ll have to replace them before Drew notices. I clamp it against my leg with one hand and rinse the bath with the other. I lift the towel up and still the blood rises. And now I feel tears pouring down my cheeks.
It’s then when the voice appears.
And this time, it’s not coming from inside my head.