3 Everleigh Glue Myself Shut—Noah Kahan
Everleigh
Glue Myself Shut—Noah Kahan
“Go and change. You need to look presentable, not like some common whore.”
His vicious words slap across my skin. I should be accustomed to the constant barrage of criticism. This arranged marriage has been my perpetual prison for almost four years.
“I . . . I thought you liked me in red,” I stutter back.
Sneering unpleasantly, Christopher casts his cold midnight-blues over me. It’s a look of disgust. This is all I am to him. The object of his disappointment and revulsion. My own husband hates me, and I don’t blame him.
“Who do you think you’re married to?” he replies venomously.
“Y-You. I’m proud to be your wife.”
“Then why do you insist on humiliating me every single day?”
“I’m sorry . . .”
“You’re turning me into a laughing stock.”
Heat sears the backs of my swollen eyes. I iced my face after he screamed at me this morning for breaking a coffee cup by accident. Christopher doesn’t like it when my face is blemished or bears any evidence of his vitriol.
It’s my fault. I should be a better wife. More beautiful. Perfect. Everything a man of his stature deserves. Instead, I continue to disappoint him. I can never seem to hit the standards he holds so dear.
“I have an image to maintain, Everleigh. Put on a dress that I’ve approved and wipe those tears off your face.”
Lips rolling inwards to cage a choked sob inside, I nod once, then flee his oppressive office. I hate the tall ceilings and dark shelves that display countless textbooks. They only echo my sniffles louder.
“And find a smile to wear, dammit!” he yells after me.
A smile.
I’m always wearing one of those. No matter how excruciatingly painful it is to paint across my face when all I want to do is scream for help at the high-society parties we attend. Still, I box the feeling up and wear my Louboutins with a polite smile.
Pulling off the silky red dress I purchased last week, I return to the rail of pre-approved outfits in my closet. Christopher chooses everything I wear. He only likes certain colours and cuts. I should’ve known the red dress was a poor choice.
Selecting a simple cream shift dress, I pull it over my still-trembling body. It fits a little loose—I’ve been on a strict diet for the past few months. Christopher said I was putting on weight and has enforced a more restrictive meal plan.
I should be thanking him. He wants me to be beautiful. To be the ideal woman. For every cruel verbal barb he throws at me, he’s making me into a better wife. It’s my fault for being so pathetic, not his.
Heading into the en suite bathroom, I have no choice but to study myself in the mirror. The pale, blotchy face staring back at me is the object of my own hatred. When I look at her, all I see is every last flaw he points out.
She’s disgusting.
And certainly not good enough for Christopher.
The same way I wasn’t good enough for my parents. That’s why one died, leaving me with another who quickly shipped me off to the highest bidder. I haven’t heard from Mother in almost three years.
I splash my face, letting the water slip over my inflamed cheeks to wash the tears away. If I concentrate hard enough, I can imagine my entire body melting into thick, bloodstained droplets that drain down the plug hole.
At least then I’d be free.
Even if a failure like me doesn’t deserve to be.
The sound of raucous laughter and clinking glasses startles me from the nightmare. Only I wish my dreams were mere figments of my traumatised imagination. In truth, they’re bad memories escaping their mental hole.
Sometimes, I pretend they’re little more than fake stories I’ve imagined. People do that, right? Fantasise about the most horrendous scenarios, pondering how they’d react? We all have a morbid side. Only mine isn’t fiction.
I can assign the years’ worth of heartache and humiliation to an alternative being by doing that. She’s just a character. A hapless victim I dreamed up, not the person I actually want to be. But then, inevitably, reality returns.
I remember who I am.
And who I’ll never be.
Rolling over in the lumpy double-sized bed, I tug the thick patchwork quilt up to my chin to fend off the room’s chill. I’m not sure how Cassidy successfully strong-armed me into staying. Perhaps it was the offer of a heavily discounted hotel room.
I surrendered the last of my remaining cash to her in exchange for a soft, warm place to sleep. Only for one day. Long enough to recharge my batteries before I keeled over and to construct an action plan.
Where do I go from here?
I’m fresh out of options. I have no home, no money, and no family to ask for help. Over five horrific years, Christopher made himself my entire life. In hindsight, I can see that was deliberate all along.
He wanted my whole world to orbit around him. That man was my sun, moon, and stars. Prince Charming riding in on his steed to sweep me off my feet and ride into the sunset.
Only once I was safely imprisoned in his golden palace, a glittering ring on my finger and his surname eternally branding me, did he allow the beast to rise from its dark cell. That’s where my fairy tale quickly ended.
Our marriage was little more than a husk. A public charade to elevate his social standing, all while giving him a convenient punching bag to verbally assault and bully, day in and day out. His charm sure faded fast.
Lying on my back, I reach for the empty wallet I’ve discarded on the bedside table. A plain gold band rests inside, engraved with someone else’s wedding date. My thumb skates over the unfamiliar numbers.
The fairy tale never existed.
Neither did the man I thought I knew.
I wonder if she realised too late as well.
Slipping the ring safely back inside, I drop the wallet like it’s scalded me. I don’t want to carry that thing, but I couldn’t leave it behind for Christopher to erase like everything else.
Before memories of that night can resurface, I blink hard to clear the ghosts from my mind’s eye. My bruised arm stings as I stare up at the ceiling. Much like the rest of Cassidy’s countryside pub, the gnarly, mottled boards are quirky and imperfect.
She didn’t want me to pay for the room at all, but once I realised she wasn’t letting me leave without a fight, I insisted on giving her something. It was a stupid move, though. Now I have nothing left.
“Cheers!”
“Another round!”
“Drink, drink, drink!”
The loud voices echo through the floorboards from the bustling pub below. I can see that it’s night-time again through the floral curtains I was too tired to draw. The glistening crescent moon is framed high above.
I should sneak out now. Slip away without being spotted. It will be far too humiliating to admit how desperate I am, and how badly I want to hide here, even if I can’t stay hidden forever.
While redressing in my now-dry clothes, thoughts of the man from earlier creep in. I fell asleep picturing his light-grey eyes, the colour of strewn ashes floating on a breeze after a bonfire cools.
With dirty-blonde hair cut into a mussed, nineties fauxhawk, pink lips full enough to resemble cushioned landing strips, and two silver studs in his left ear that match his nose ring, Leo sure left an impression.
Yet it wasn’t his square features covered in well-trimmed fuzz or his temptingly cut jawline that interested me. Sure, I noticed that he’s handsome. It was hard not to.
But the genuine, motiveless care and concern in his gaze is what halted my footsteps. Who looks at a stranger like that? He seemed to see straight through me within mere seconds of meeting, and that scared me the most.
No one is allowed to dissect my performance.
It isn’t safe for me to be seen.
Shaking the thoughts aside, I finger-brush my newly short locks, relishing the feeling of each clean strand. My dark-chocolate hair smells like hotel shampoo, but it feels so good to be somewhat clean again. I haven’t washed it since I hacked off the length after fleeing.
Stashing my wallet, I lift the backpack onto my shoulder, taking one last look around the room. Fierce longing lances across my chest. I quickly leave before the calm I’ve haphazardly pieced together can shatter.
The roar of drunken voices directs me down the twisty, carpeted staircase into the bowels of the tavern. It seems that even in the dead of winter, the place is brimming with life. Locals pack into every tight corner.
They sound so happy, it increases the pain thudding behind my breastbone. At the bottom of the rickety steps, I look through the door into the busy pub. I’ll have to sneak through to reach the exit.
It’s packed to the rafters with unknown faces, young and old. Hawkthorpe’s residents are dressed casually in varying shades of ripped denim, bright flannel, and worn cotton. All relaxed and smiling.
It’s . . . weirdly beautiful.
For an indulgent moment, I let myself watch. Perhaps even fantasise about what it would be like to fit in with them. To genuinely smile without faking each muscle movement. To laugh. Joke. Exist freely.
To my relief, I don’t spot Leo’s easy smile amongst the drunk horde. It was hard enough to dodge his questions while I scarfed down breakfast this morning before retiring to the hotel room.
“Breathe,” I whisper.
This isn’t another party surrounded by bloodsucking socialites and their barely veiled taunts. I don’t have to plaster on a mask to keep my numb shield intact. No one is judging my performance. I’m invisible here.
Am I?
Oblivious shoulders nudge mine and loud voices wrap around me as I slip inside to weave through the crowd. It’s hot and stuffy, heat pouring from the open fireplace tucked into the corner of the room.
Each time someone shouts a joke or clinks their glass into another, I recoil. The sensory overload is fraying my brain, making it difficult to keep my breathing in check.
“Eden!”
“Shit,” I curse lowly.
“Hey, Eden! Over here!”
Freezing dead in my tracks, I close my eyes, hoping the stern voice will leave me alone. When my name is yelled again but louder, I have no choice but to turn around.
“Eden! Hey!”