by Selena Kitt
When the caterpillar is no more the butterfly exists in ultimate freedom and beauty.”
—TANYA LORD
Chapter One
Grace
The first smack across my cheek takes my breath away.
The force swings my head around.
A cracking sound in my neck reverberates through my ears.
Black and white stars explode behind my eyes.
I taste something metallic in my mouth. Blood.
No one’s ever hit me before, and I’m shocked. More than shocked. Scared to death.
Every single fibre and molecule in my body freezes. Paralyzed. Mute.
Except for my brain.
In the few seconds it takes him to grab me and hurl me onto his bed, I have two thoughts. One, I’m so scared I don’t know if I can survive what is about to happen. And two, I want to stay alive.
And then the freezing reverses.
My brain shuts down, and my thoughts evaporate into numbness, but my body can feel again. His heavy weight presses on top of me, forcing me into his mattress where the springs dig into my back. One of his big hands grips both of mine above my head so I can’t struggle. His other hand tears at my knickers. He’s forcing himself inside me.
He’s so strong the weight of him crushes my chest.
I can’t breathe.
Don’t want to breathe. Just want to be dead.
When I do suck in a ragged gasp of breath, I smell the alcohol on him.
Terror has frozen my vocal chords. I can’t scream.
White noise fills my head.
I turn my face to the side, away from his, because it’s the only part of my body I have control over.
Hot, wet tears slide down my cheeks and the back of my throat.
Nothing will ever be the same again.
I wake up with the scream lodged in my throat. My heart bangs against my ribs so hard my chest threatens to explode. I shiver with the cold sweat covering me. My stomach lurches.
I rush to the bathroom and vomit into the toilet just in time. There’s not much to bring up, since I hardly eat anymore, and the stomach acid and bile burns my throat. My eyes water from the effort, or maybe it’s just the tears again. As the last heaves wrack my body, I’m completely aware it was a nightmare. I have the same one every night.
Except it wasn’t a nightmare. Not really. It’s my reality now. I’m stuck in a living nightmare, where I’m afraid to go to sleep and afraid to stay awake. Either way it haunts me, like the vision is stuck just behind my eyes. Whether they’re open or closed, it’s seared into my brain and will never go away. I know I need help. It’s been a year, and trying to forget isn’t working anymore.
I clean my teeth and rinse my mouth, carefully avoiding my gaze in the mirror because I can’t stomach what I’ll see. I know what will reflect back at me: a woman who’s pathetic, weak, ugly, desperate, hopeless.
I wish I wasn’t her.
I lie down on the cold, hard tiles of the bathroom floor, my arm supporting my head as I stare into desolate space.
I can’t do this anymore.
I don’t want to be this person. Don’t even recognize who I am anymore.
I’m too scared to live and too scared to end it all.
I barely exist.
I’m exhausted.
It hurts to breathe. To live.
I wake up early the next morning as the light filters through the bathroom blind. My body is cold and painful from sleeping on the floor. Maybe it’s my punishment. Maybe I deserve it. I stand on wobbly legs and walk down the hallway to the bedroom. The sour smell of my sweat on the sheets reaches my nose, and I’m disgusted with myself. If it’s not possible to forget, then I have to try something else. I want this to be over and done with. I want to live again.
Anger and despair rise inside me. I try to keep it locked inside, but it lives close to the surface now, threatening to unleash itself at any moment. I scream, pulling the sheets and duvet off my bed into a heap on the floor. I kick my shoes across the room so hard they hit the wall and bounce back. I swing my arm over the contents of my bedside table, sending an empty wine glass and alarm clock hurtling to the floor. The glass shatters on the pine floorboards, but I don’t care. I don’t care about most things anymore.
I crumple to the floor, my body crouched in on itself. My arms clutch around my knees, and I rest my head on them, trying to keep my breathing steady.
I know what I have to do, but I’m so scared. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want everyone to know my shameful secret. I don’t want to see the disgust in their eyes. Or the blame. But maybe it’s my only hope, because I want to be normal again. I can’t face the thought that this is all there is for the rest of my life.
I shuffle across the floor towards the bedside table and open the top drawer. I slide my hand inside and reach for the advert I tore out of the newspaper. I’ve folded it over and over until it’s a tiny, crumpled piece of black and white paper. I press it to the wooden floor and unfold it, carefully smoothing it back into shape again, then stare at it through the haze of unshed tears.
The Cambridge Women’s Centre holds weekly Rape Crisis group therapy sessions on Mondays at 7.00 p.m. No appointments are necessary.
The next meeting is tonight.
Inhaling a deep breath, I stare at the ceiling, summoning the strength to start another day, and make myself promise. I have to go to the session. The effort of keeping it all inside makes me feel as if I’m going to crack up.
Slowly, I rise and clear up the broken glass, wrapping it carefully in newspaper before depositing it wearily in the kitchen bin. It’s five a.m., and I’ve had about four hours’ sleep. That’s a good night for me.
I dress in black trousers and a black shirt with “Imogen’s Coffee Shop” stitched in silver lettering on the front. Even if it weren’t my uniform, I’d still be wearing black. It’s the only colour that’s appropriate now.
It’s time to put my mask on. Carefully, I apply foundation to even out my blotchy skin and hide the dark circles. The thick black eyeliner, dark brown eye shadow, and mascara hide my puffy eyes. Pink lipstick is the only bit of colour I allow myself, and only then it’s to moisturize my dry lips. I live my life behind a façade now. What’s that saying, “fake it ’til you make it”? That’s what I do. I fake my life. Go through the motions of smiling and laughing and pretending to be me when I’m at work, but inside no one knows I’m a living dead girl. A ghost. People surround me all day at work, but I’ve never been more isolated. When your soul cries, no one can hear it, and the wounds you can’t see hurt the most.
I undo the four locks on the door of my flat that I painstakingly check and recheck every night when I get back from work, and walk down the stairs that lead to a car park at the back of the building. At least I don’t have far to go to work. Within a minute, I’m around the side of the building and at the front door of the coffee shop below my flat. I unlock the door and step inside, locking it behind me. I have two and a half hours to bake the morning’s cakes and cookies before Lisa arrives and we open up to a swarm of commuters and students from the nearby university campuses.
I walk around the counter and turn on the coffee machines then head through a doorway that leads to the kitchen to immerse myself in the ritual of mixing dough and batter. Concentrating on these tasks I’ve done for years is the only time I can almost forget about that night. Almost shut down. Even though it’s mundane, and I’ve done it a million times before—could probably do it on autopilot—it gives me a sense of familiarity, like maybe the only part of me who’s still normal is the part that can bake. Work is the only thing that stops me falling apart completely.
I leave the final batch of muffins in the oven and make sure the counter is stocked with everything we need for the first rush. I make myself a latte, and as I take the first sip, Lisa appears at the door and knocks.
I can’t believe she’s leaving soon. She’s worked here for almost a year, since Aunt Imogen packed u
p and went to Spain to retire, leaving me to run the coffee shop without her. Lisa’s the only one I feel close to, and even she doesn’t know the real me. I couldn’t bear for her to look at me differently if she did.
She smiles and rubs her swollen, pregnant belly absentmindedly.
I smile broadly back at her. The façade is firmly in place as I open the door and give her a hug.
Lisa laughs when her belly gets in the way. ‘I can’t wait for her to come out now. I’m sick of bumping into things!’
‘I’ll miss you round here,’ I say, following her into the kitchen where she grabs a green apron and ties it behind her back.
‘Well, you can’t get rid of me that easily. I’ll be in all the time to see you.’ Her blue eyes sparkle, radiating health and happiness, and for a fleeting moment, I want what she has. A husband who adores her more than anything, a new baby on the way, knowing what it feels like to have true love. Yes, I want a real life.
I shake the thought away because I know it’s impossible. I’ll never have that now. I’m damaged. Destroyed. There’s no room for happiness in my life.
‘You’d better come and see me,’ I say. ‘Although I think you’ll be a bit too busy with baby bump to come in here after she’s born.’
‘Well, you can come and see me. You need to get out more, instead of working too hard here. You’re too young not to be having fun. Before you know it, you’ll have a guy and a baby on the way, and your life won’t be your own anymore, so enjoy it while you can.’ She looks down at her belly and strokes it again with a smile. ‘Not that I’m complaining. I’m so totally ready to be a mum.’
The timer for the muffins sounds in the kitchen. I’m relieved I don’t have to answer her questions again, about why I don’t go out with my friends and enjoy myself like normal twenty-two-year-olds.
I take the muffins out of the oven and place them on a rack to cool then transfer all the other cakes and cookies to the glass screen behind the counter. Lisa checks the coffee machines are ready to go.
‘So, have you put an advert in the paper for another barrista?’ Lisa asks. ‘Because if not, you’re leaving it a bit late to replace me. I’ve only got a few days left.’
I roll my eyes at her. ‘No.’ I’ve probably been in denial about her leaving. I don’t want her to go, but at the same time, I know she has to. I don’t want anyone else working in close proximity with me. Don’t want the questions from someone new, probing into my life. I can handle work on my own. I want to stay busy so I can try to stop thinking.
She rolls her eyes back at me. ‘You can’t manage on your own here. It gets mega busy.’
I shrug and give her a confident grin—one that I’ve perfected over the last year. ‘I like being busy.’
‘Grace, you need someone else to help you.’ She rests her hands on her hip, trying to give me a stern look, but the smile beneath it shines through.
‘You’ll need to practice your Mummy look a bit more if you’re going to tell baby bump off. It’s not working very well on me.’
She tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder and chuckles. ‘Well, Jack can be the disciplinarian. I’m going to be a softy, I can tell.’ Then she glares at me. ‘Except with you, young lady.’
‘Young lady! Hah! You’re only five years older than me. And, actually, I’m your boss.’ I smirk. ‘So, you can’t tell me off.’
‘What are you going to do, fire me?’ She smirks back and tosses a tea towel over her shoulder. ‘But seriously, this is too much for you to do on your own. You look tired enough as it is.’
My eyes widen slightly. She’s noticed?
I am tired. It’s like I’m running on nervous energy and pure adrenaline half the time.
‘What does Imogen think about hiring someone else?’ Lisa asks.
I shrug. Aunt Imogen doesn’t give a shit about the coffee shop anymore. And she’s never cared about me. I’ve hardly spoken to her since she retired to Spain. She couldn’t wait to leave as soon as I turned twenty-one and she could wash her hands of all responsibility for me. Still, at least she’d left me the coffee shop, which I’m grateful for, even if I do have to give her half the profits.
‘Actually, I haven’t told her you’re leaving. She doesn’t run the place anymore, I do.’
‘Well, surely she wouldn’t want you working your arse off on your own here.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘You’ve never met Imogen.’
She claps her hands together. ‘I know. Why don’t you put a notice on the door advertising for staff? Actually, I’ll do it for you, since you probably won’t bother.’ She goes into the small office just off the kitchen and comes back a few minutes later with a piece of paper and some tape. She’s written “Help Wanted, Apply Within” on the paper.
I don’t have the energy to fight her on this one. When she leaves work, I’ll probably just take it down and throw it away.
She sticks the advert to the door and stands back to make sure it’s straight before the first customer pushes the door open.
‘Hi. What can I get you?’ I ask him. The attempt at trying to appear cheerful makes my voice crack slightly. I force a smile at him, but inside I cringe. I hate being this close to men now, and yet I have to if I want to earn a living. Adrenaline pumps through me as my subconscious weighs up the potential threat. My heart hammers so hard I’m surprised no one can see it banging out a tribal beat beneath the apron.
‘I’ll have a double espresso and a banana muffin, please,’ he says.
‘Let the madness begin!’ Lisa whispers, joining me behind the counter as another customer walks in.
At half-past five, I wipe down all the tables and clear up the rest of the shop as Lisa cleans the coffee machines. There’s been some craft market in town, making us crazy busy. We have no cakes left over for me to take to the local homeless shelter, which is what I usually do with them.
‘You can go, Lisa.’ I give her a grateful hug and glance over her shoulder at the clock. The counselling meeting starts at seven, and I want to get there early. I don’t want to walk into a crowded room and have all eyes on me.
‘You’re sure? I haven’t finished this machine.’
‘No problem. I’ll do it.’ I jerk my head towards the door. ‘Go on. You must be exhausted.’
She’s rubbed her back for the last few hours, and even though she’s started sitting down behind the counter sometimes, carrying around all that extra weight must be tough when you’re standing all day.
‘OK, hon. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ She walks out with a wave, and I lock the door behind her.
I finish cleaning the machine, gnawing on my lip as I try to muster up the courage for what I’m about to do.
I lock the shop and go up to my flat, changing into black leggings and a black sweatshirt. I reapply my lipstick, but it looks wrong on my pale face. My foundation has sweated off during the day, and I look haggard with dark circles under my eyes. The lack of sleep is taking its toll.
I get in the Ford Focus that Imogen left me, parked in the rear car park. It’s sign-written with the name of the coffee shop and my mobile phone number, although I don’t know why. It’s not as if we deliver coffee, but Imogen insisted potential customers could see it when I’m out driving, and it would be good advertising.
I arrive at the Women’s Centre at ten past six. I’m very early, but I want time to prepare. To compose myself.
My chest squeezes tight. Nausea builds up in my stomach, and I desperately hope I don’t puke again.
The building is old Victorian redbrick and was a school at one time. I stare at the windows and take deep gulps of air, trying to calm my frazzled nerves. I open the car door, and my hands shake so badly I drop the car keys on the concrete. Every muscle in my body is rigid and painful. I scrabble for the keys and for a moment, I freeze.
I can’t do this. I can’t expose myself. Lay my feelings bare. I lean against the car door and close my eyes, gripping the keys so hard they dig into my palm. But
maybe the pain is good. Maybe it will take my mind off the thoughts hurtling out of control.
You can do this. You can do it.
I repeat it over and over in my head like a mantra and force myself to walk up the front steps into the building. I rub my stomach, trying to make the twinges disappear. A sign in the hallway says the meeting is being held on the first floor.
I take another deep breath, steadying myself on the iron hand rail of the stairs, and walk up to the next floor with heavy legs.
The corridor is quiet. My footsteps echo as I walk along until I get to one of the doors marked with Rape Crisis Group Therapy Session. I rest my hand on the door, ready to push it open.
And then I’m suddenly back in his bedroom again. He’s forcing himself on top of me, and I can’t move.
My heart races.
A crushing pain squeezes my chest.
I’m panting as my subconscious tells my conscious mind to suck in more oxygen.
I can’t go in there. I can’t talk about this with strangers. I can’t let people judge me. Don’t want to be labelled. I just can’t relive it all.
And so I do the only thing I still have the courage to do. I run back along the corridor and down the stairs.
The tears are in full flow now, drowning out my vision. I rush to the car and unlock it with trembling hands. It takes several attempts before I can fit the key in the lock. I push my long hair out of my eyes and jab the key in the ignition.
I have to get away from here.
Chapter Two
Ben
I park outside the Women’s Centre and look at the clock. I’m way too early. All I have to do, really, is set up the mats for the self-defence class, but I don’t socialize anymore. so what else is there to do but sit at home and think? I’m tired of thinking about it all. Exhausted with it.
Tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, I think about driving off and coming back just before eight when it starts. That’s when I see her flying through the front door and running towards a car.