Chapter 17
I’ve spent the past four years of my marriage trapped in this gilded cage.
A prisoner in my own home with a cruel and vicious monster, and that monster is my husband.
I thought I was in love once, that I’d found the other half of my soul, a man that would cherish and protect me but I was so very wrong.
I was tricked and trapped from the very first moment, and that moment has led me to this.
A decision that I will probably regret making for the rest of my life.
I’ve heard people often ask why women stay in abusive relationships and I too often thought the same thing, that was before it happened to me.
You see, it’s not as easy as just sitting down with my husband and explaining that I want a divorce, oh no.
It’s the hold this man has over me, the metaphorical chains that have bound my ankles and wrists, to the floor.
This man has taken everything from me, to the point where I have to rely on him for all my basic needs, and he knows it.
This is so much more than physical. The bruises only run skin deep, but this mental torment will last a lifetime.
I have lost everything that was once mine, my belongings, my character, my friends, my job, my zest for life has slipped through my fingers like grains of sand and I’ve been left digging in the dirt to pick the pieces up.
I let my sore body float in the warm bath water.
The heat soothing my bruised skin. The purple bruises begin to bloom on my legs and hips and the wound on my forehead from when I was thrown into the marble kitchen island has now dried, the blood flaking on my skin.
The throbbing, now a dull ache. I’ll have to keep an eye on that one as Ricky won’t allow me to go to the hospital for injuries in case anyone suspects anything.
He fears I may cause a scene that will have people questioning him.
I’d like to think it would be that easy, but I know the power that Ricky holds over people.
The moment I voiced my situation, I’d be dragged straight back here with his hand in my hair, kicking and screaming.
So I know my place, and my place is to keep quiet.
I’ve thought about escaping many times, it crosses my mind on a daily basis.
How would I do it? Where would I go if I got away?
Do I have the willpower to do that, I’m not so sure.
The darkness that slips in every so often has become a comforting friend to me, it keeps me safe when things get too loud, or I need a place to escape to when Ricky puts his hands on me.
Even now, its gentle caress across my mind is soothing and warm, telling me that it’s safe to let go now, that it’s okay for me to step over that edge and accept my fate. That it won’t hurt anymore.
I’m tired, I’m so very tired. Letting my head rest on the white porcelain of the bathtub, the water lapping at my skin soothes my anxiety.
The sweet vanilla aroma invades my senses as I rub the razor blade between my index finger and thumb, the shape and weight a familiar feeling to me, the small but deadly item brings me an ounce of control over my own body.
Lifting my hand, I bring the sharp blade to the inside of my arm, the skin already marred with previous war wounds, and press the metal against the thin skin and pull from the middle of my forearm to my wrist, the flesh splitting open under the sharp blade.
Hot crimson liquid pools to the surface before trailing down my arm in thick rivulets and I instantly feel relief, all my worries seeping out of my skin like a deadly poison.
The blood mixes with the water causing an almost oil slick image, or the aftermath of a shark attack.
A small laugh escapes my lips in my hazy state at the thought of a shark in a bathtub.
I don’t remember the last time I laughed.
It’s nice. Steadily, I place the blade on the edge of the tub, my fingertips leave pink droplets on the white porcelain.
I drop my arms back into the water, a slight stinging sensation tingles over my arm from the fragranced water invading the open wound.
I feel weightless, like I’m on a soft cloud and nothing can touch me up here.
No pain, no heartache. Just silence. My eyelids grow heavy like lead weights are bringing them down over my eyes but I don’t bother to fight it.
A tormenting memory plays like an old film in my mind and I’m the only one in the audience watching it.
The smell of smoke wakes me from my already broken sleep, the heavy fumes making their way through every inch of the house. Abruptly, I sit up right, my left hand grasping at the sheets of the bed to find it empty.
Where’s Ricky?!
Throwing the sheet off my legs, I scramble out of bed, not bothering with shoes or a robe and fling the bedroom door open, my heavy footsteps slamming against the hardwood floors, sending shockwaves up my bare feet to my knees.
Frantically, I open the spare bedroom doors to find the rooms are all empty.
My brain is scrambling to figure out what’s going on and where the smoke is coming from.
I carry on running towards the landing, my feet skidding on the floor as I grab a hold of the banister rail.
I manage to keep my stance and make my way down the stairs, each step feeling more further away than the last.
“Ricky! Where are you?!” I shout and wait for a response.
What if he’s hurt? Would that be such a bad thing?
No, fuck. I shouldn’t be thinking that. He’s my husband.
My feet land on the plush grey carpet at the bottom of the stairs and I race into the living room, finding the curtains closed and no sign of life, everything is still in its place.
Okay, so nothing is on fire in the house it seems. My lungs burn from the panic, and I take a breather, my hands settling on my knees as I fill my lungs with the much needed oxygen.
After a moment I stand and make my way into the kitchen to see that there’s glass on the floor, sharp broken shards dotted all over the white tiles and an open bottle of whiskey sits on the island in the middle of the kitchen, the contents almost empty.
Please, no. Sober Ricky can be terrible to deal with, but intoxicated Ricky becomes a whole other person.
Someone downright wicked and evil. Not someone I can defend myself against.
My eyes scan over the kitchen, being careful of where I step, not wanting to stand on an invisible piece of glass.
In my peruse of the kitchen I notice the garage door open to the right of the kitchen, a cold breeze makes its way up the steps and brushes over my bare legs.
Steadily, on shaky legs I tip toe over to the door and poke my head around the side.
“Ricky? Are you down there?” I whisper-shout, and get no response, but I do notice brown cardboard boxes strewn all over the floor and up the stairs, as if someone has ransacked them all in a hurry to look for something.
A slither of writing catches my eyes, the handwriting I recognise as mine, written in black marker pen.
Crouching down, I pick up the ripped cardboard.
My own words staring back at me. ‘Ana’s books’ my stomach bottoms out, panic throwing me off balance causing me to land heavily on my ass on the top step.
I wince at the sharp pain before pulling myself together again.
He wouldn’t, would he? The smoke, the boxes, the whiskey, it all paints a heartbreaking picture. A picture that I don’t want to look at.
I push myself up off the floor and begin to slowly creep over to the back door, then place my trembling hand on the cold handle, my fingers gripping around the metal.
The heavy feeling of dread lands in the pit of my stomach as I push the handle down, hearing the mechanism unlocking, I step outside into the garden.
The cold night air hits my bare skin like a thousand needles and I instantly shiver and wrap my arms around myself to keep warm, noticing a warm glow around the tree we have planted.
The rich smell of smoke is much stronger out here and I have to cover my mouth with my hand to stop the heavy smoke from choking me.
My legs wobble as I step onto the damp grass and walk around the tree to come face to face with my worst nightmare.
All my books, my special editions, the lives I have lived through all those pages are being burnt, right in front of my eyes.
I can’t even move, my feet firmly planted into the grass, fusing me in place.
The heat from the fire is sizzling my skin, but I wish it would burn me alive.
The last of my belongings are gone. Forever.
In the light of the fire I notice Ricky swaying on his feet, a crystal glass in his hand, the amber liquid spilling over the edges and a book in the other.
I take a step forward until he notices me in his periphery.
“How could you?” I sob. Tears streamed down my face.
“These books were all I had left and you’ve taken them!
” My voice is growing louder, white hot anger firing through me.
I’ve never raised my voice at Ricky before but now I can’t stop.
My blood is boiling as hot as the fire with the fury I’m feeling.
I already know the punishment I will receive from this outburst but I cannot stand by and let this happen.
Ricky’s voice slurs as he shouts over the roaring fire. “I’m supposed to be the only man you love, Annabelle. Not these fucking men in these fucking books! These.. Pages are brainwashing you. They’re taking over your mind, and I won’t have it.”
I’m taken aback by his words, the theory he seems to believe. I try to plead my case, my hands rising in front of me to calm him down.