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I flinch as loud thunder disrupts the silence of the night before torrential rain starts falling from the sky, pattering heavily against the old tiles of our roof. It doesn’t take long before I can hear the irregular dripping of the water through our leak in the hallway onto the dirty, wooden floor. Shuddering, I pull the blanket closer around me, turning in my bed and facing the wall.
Ever since I was I child, I loved pretending that when I don’t see it, it isn’t there but soon enough I learned that things don’t work that way. Instead of wishing them away one is even less prepared when they actually happen but still, I never give up hope.
How very ignorant of me, how very naive.
Despite the raging storm outside, I can hear his footsteps on the creaking stairs and the clinking of a glass bottle against the bare, concrete wall outside my room. He’s been drinking again, though not as much as the previous week. Maybe his booze reserve is coming to an end or maybe he was just distracted by the football World Cup on TV.
His breath comes in short, heavy gasps as he finally reaches my door. He reeks of sweat and whiskey and just the thought of what he is going to do to me again, makes me want to vomit and to choke on it.
The mattress behind me moves as he places his chubby, dirty body on it before he drops the bottle on the floor not caring about the mess he’s making on my bedroom floor. Biting my lip, I close my eyes as he lets his hand glide through my hair and down my back, shoving the duvet to the side at the very same moment, exposing me to the cold air wafting through our bedraggled house.
“Have you been waiting for me, my dear?,” he mumbles into my ear, his hot, reeking breath dampening my skin, causing me to shudder in disgust. I remain quiet, my eyes still closed, my fingers buried deeply within the sheets as I try to hold onto something, anything but him.
A bolt of lightning lights up the semi-dark city outside and for a split second the inside of my room, as quickly gone as it appeared. I try to focus on the raindrops in our hallway - pitter-patter, pitter-patter; the irregular noise of the water meeting the growing puddle on the floor serving as my mantra, the escape for my mind, while his hands glide under my shirt and into my panties.
Finally, I look up, following the trails of the rain on the outside of my window, trying to keep up with their fast pace down the glass until they vanish out of sight. It calms me to watch them, it distracts me from the pain and his grunts as he lies behind me, taking from me what he needs so badly.
I don’t resist, I don’t cooperate, I simply am. Or maybe not. I can’t distinguish between outer shell and inner feelings anymore. I don’t know whether I should cry or not because at the end of the day there is no point in either.
His hand moves slowly along my side, his thumb stroking briefly along the tender skin on my waist before he places his long, slender fingers on my stomach. His body is moving closer to mine, skin touching skin, clothes rubbing against clothes, everywhere, from head to toe, his body melts into mine like a second skin with perfect fit.
I hold my breath, eyes wide open, inevitably waiting for the stench, the grunts, the pain. I didn’t hear him coming, didn’t hear the whisky bottle clattering against the floor, didn’t feel the mattress bend beneath his weight. My eyes focused on the darkness ahead of me, I try to find something to distract me, to calm me but as his hand moves upwards, closer and closer towards the underside of my breasts, I lose it.
Without thinking twice, I elbow him into the face, a single, quiet ‘crack’ telling me of my good aim before his hands let go of me and I jump up, off the bed and to the other end of the room, looking for something to defend myself with. And then I stare at him in shock, lying there on the crisp white sheet, his hands now on his face, a quiet groan emanating from his mouth.
“Oh Shit! Oh Shit, I’m so sorry,” I breathe, stumbling back towards the bed as his fingers find the light switch of our bedside table lamp, bathing the room in a warm and golden glow. “I’m sorry, Tom. I…I thought…,” I hesitate as he looks at me and I can see the pain, both physically and mentally, in his bright, silvery-blue eyes. “It’s okay,” he whispers, getting up and walking straight into the ensuite bathroom to tend to his nose while I remain on the bed, my elbow hurting, my skin still prickling from the pain I had been expecting just moments ago.
Quietly, I walk downstairs into the kitchen, our kitchen, to retrieve an ice pack from the freezer. Wrapping it into a kitchen towel, I lean onto the counter and close my eyes for a moment. The rain outside is beating against the glass roof of our conservatory, a steady, fast tattoo matching the increased heartbeat inside my chest. My elbow hurts and as I touch it with my fingertip, I can feel something wet and slightly sticky. It’s Tom’s blood, not mine, I realise, and I quickly wash it off before going back upstairs, step by step, step by step.
“Tom?,” I mumble upon entering the bedroom again. The light from the bathroom casts a bright rectangle onto the dark wooden floor and I’m drawn towards it like a moth. “Tom?,” I try again, my fingertips brushing the white, wooden door before he opens it, a wet towel soaking up the blood from his bruised nose. “I brought you some ice,” I whisper, holding out the cold package towards him and he takes it gently out of my hand, stepping aside to allow me access to the bathroom.
In silence, I sit down on the cold, ceramic bathtub edge, my gaze focused on my painted red toenails, too ashamed to meet his eyes. I can hear him replacing his wet towel with the ice pack before his feet come into view, then his knees and his hips as he kneels on the bath rug in front of me.
“Are you hurt?,” he whispers, his free hand resting on his thigh, twitching shortly as if to touch me but he leaves it where it is. “No, I’m not,” I mumble, intertwining my fingers in my lap to keep them from fumbling. “Honey,…Evanee, look at me, darling,” he says, quietly, lovingly, and I slowly lift my gaze, looking straight into his deep blue, compassionate eyes. “It’s okay, right? Don’t worry. I survived Hemsworth’ elbow, I’ll sure enough survive yours.” He stops for a moment, waiting for my reaction and I manage a faint, though probably unconvincing smile.
“I guess we’ll have to practise this whole spooning and cuddling in bed thing again but it’s okay, you hear me? I am fine and you are fine and nobody got hurt…well, not really at least,” he adds, his soothing, velvety voice wrapping itself around my fears like a bandage around a wound.
I nod, slowly, untangling my fingers as he holds out his hand towards me ere I take it into mine. His skin is soft and warm and I lift his palm up to my lips to press a soft kiss onto it, my apology, my offer of amends. He smiles at me, nodding slightly, and I marvel at his ability for forgiveness, his patience and love.
He oozes warmth and protection and I reprimand myself for not realising that it was him earlier in bed. “Tom, I’m…” The fingertip of his index finger stops me tenderly and he nods again. “I know, my love. And it’s not your fault. It’s his for doing that do you, for holding onto your soul and life, even now, a year later. But one day he’ll be gone. He’ll leave you alone and us alone and then all of this will be forgotten. We will be fine. We are fine!”
Gently, he wipes the tear away that makes its way down my flushed cheek, threatening to lose itself in the fabric of my shirt. “Let’s go back to bed, hm?,” Tom suggests, getting up from the floor and placing the ice pack next to the washbasin, the kitchen towel bloodstained, cold and damp. “Okay,” I breathe and get up, my hand still resting in his, his fingers filling the gaps between mine like the missing piece of a jigsaw .
I wait until he’s under the duvet next to me before I turn off the light, allowing darkness to encompass us again. “You’ve got a strong punch, my dear,” Tom chuckles as he pulls me closer to himself, his strong arms not a threat anymore but a safe haven to return to. “Good to know,” I whisper, grinning a little before I can feel his lips on my skin, pressing a gently kiss onto my forehead.
“I love you, Evanee. And whatever you do to me, I always will,” he breathes against my hairline, sending a shiver of comfort down my spine. “I love you, too, Tom. You have no idea how much,” I mumble in reply, burying my face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him, his heart beating lively under the palm of my hand.