The Banishing

by Fiona Dodwell

  Late nights were not unusual for Mark—he earned more working late, accepting jobs the other guys didn‘t want—but he always told her. He wouldn’t have left the TV on all day, either.

  “Mark?” she called from the bottom of the stairs. She felt cold, damp to the skin, and she wanted to get out of her clothes and into something warm.

  Melissa stepped over her bag and climbed the stairs. “Mark?”

  No reply.

  Maybe he had arrived home, had a call from the office to make a delivery, and had left again in a hurry. Except that was all wrong. She could see his work clothes sprawled across the bed in a messy heap.

  She stepped into the bedroom and lifted the clothes off the bed. She threw them onto the floor, annoyed at his sloppiness and his laziness, which had become more apparent over the last few months. She heard something behind her and twisted around.

  It was Mark. He was standing in the bedroom doorway, watching her.

  “Pick them up,” he said, staring at her.

  “What?” Melissa said, startled by his sudden appearance. Had he been hiding? Waiting for her to come up and find him? Why hadn’t he answered when she called out for him?

  “My clothes that you just threw on the floor. Pick them up, again. Is that how you treat my things?”

  Melissa felt sick. Not like this. Not again. She could not handle Mark this way….not now.

  She hesitated for a moment, her mind trying to think up ways to break the weird atmosphere between them, to break the tension in Mark’s eyes. He looked infuriated.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, and realized how stupid that sounded. Something was wrong—with him. Lately, something always was.

  He remained there, by the doorway, his fists clenched into tight balls. His eyes narrowed, and his skin flushed red. Melissa watched him and thought he looked ugly that way. Mark was a good-looking man. He had never been short of female attention. He was charming, and he had a warm smile. Beautiful eyes. The way he was now, it was as if something disfiguring in him from beneath had swum to the surface. She felt scared. Every muscle inside her body ached with tension.

  “You don’t treat my things with respect,” he said, his voice quiet and controlled. “You don’t treat me with respect.”

  Melissa remained there, by the bed, frozen to the spot. Her skin felt itchy from the wet clothes that clung to her. Every now and then, a drop of rain fell from her hair, ran down her chest, and down her neck. “I do respect you, Mark. What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

  He stepped into the room, closer to her. His fists still remained at his side. “You called Sharon last night, didn’t you?” he said.

  Melissa felt empty, void. She didn’t know what to think or say, so she said nothing.

  Mark stepped forward, again. She could smell wine on his breath. “Last night, when I heard you on the phone, you told me Sharon called you. I checked your mobile phone.” Mark looked down, fished in his pockets, and produced Melissa’s mobile phone.

  “How did you get that?” she asked.

  Mark ignored her question. He held up the mobile phone in his hand as if it was an award, a trophy. “I checked your dialed numbers. You phoned her up. That bitch.”

  Melissa felt sick. She felt the drink she had in the bar rise in her throat. It tasted acidic, bitter. “I…just got mixed up. It doesn’t matter, does it? I just phoned for a chat, and then she asked about us going for a drink. What difference does this really make?”

  “That’s why you’re home late, is it?” Mark snarled, throwing the mobile phone onto the floor. It hit the carpet with a dull thud.

  Melissa took a step back, nodding. “Yeah, we just went out for a drink. Just one. Then, I came back. It doesn’t matter, does it?” she asked a second time, trying to sound casual, trying to make light of whatever darkness had covered the room between them. “It isn’t a bad thing that I called her. Is it? You said I could go out with her!”

  Mark laughed; it sounded dark and menacing. “What’s bad,” he said, now only inches away from her, “is that you lied to me. You lied to me and made things up. I can’t trust you.”

  Melissa forced a smile. “You can trust me, I swear. It’s only Sharon, Mark. You know Sharon.”

  “I don’t like people lying to me. Why would you do that? That’s the real issue here. Why lie about something little like that?”

  Melissa was about to answer, when she realized Mark didn’t want one. He leaned in close to her, running a hand though her hair. “Make it up to me,” he said, his voice hard and emotionless.

  “How?” her voice was weak, shaky, and she hated herself for allowing herself to seem so defenseless, so under his power. She felt like a frightened child under his cruel eyes. She wanted to push him away—to kick him, whack him, tell him to get out—when all she said was “How?”

  Mark kissed her gently on the cheek. “You know how,” he said, and pressed against her. Melissa could feel the bulge from his pants and knew what he wanted. She felt sick when she realized that this would be better than getting hit. Sex would be better than another split lip.

  She lowered herself onto her knees, and with shaking hands, began to unzip Mark’s jeans. She pulled them down to the floor, and he stepped out of them. His penis poked beneath the material of his briefs. She lowered them and began to take him into her mouth when she suddenly felt a huge blow to the back of her head.

  Numb for a moment, she felt her head explode with pain. Tiny dots of light floated in front of her eyes. She realized after a moment of feeling stunned that he had punched her. She fell backwards and raised her hand to her face. She felt for blood, but there was none.

  “You’re a bitch,” he spat at her, his voice loud. She didn’t recognize his voice; it was a deep, booming rasp.

  He reached down and pulled her onto the bed, his face contorted into a mask of rage. “I don’t like bitches who lie, bitches who don’t respect my things!”

  Melissa tried to hold back tears. “Please, Mark. Don’t hurt me.”

  It was as if he never heard her. He crawled onto the bed beside her and tugged at the damp clothes she was wearing until they came off, and then he threw them onto the floor.

  “Please, Mark. My head…you’ve hurt me.” Melissa winced as another wave of pain crashed against her skull.

  Mark, ignoring her, yanked at her bra and pulled it off, all the while laughing—the most insane, unsettling, frightening part of it all, Melissa thought—as he threw them to the side. She was completely naked, now.

  Mark, covering her mouth with his hand, thrust himself inside her, deep and hard. Melissa thought about how it smelled of vanilla soap, normally her favorite smell.

  “Mark, you’re hurting me,” she tried to say, but the words came out all wrong, muffled and lost beneath the weight of his hand.

  His body, pressing her down and pinning her against the bed, felt like a weight she could not bear. He thrust inside her, hard and fast, his other hand pulling at her hair. It hurt and made her wince.

  “You have some fucking making up to do,” he rasped in her ear as he violently, and with force, hammered himself inside her.

  Melissa closed her eyes, trying to ignore the pain as he raped her with such force that she felt sharp pains searing inside her with each unforgiving, ferocious movement.

  Her head still throbbed from where he whacked her. Throbbing, hammering behind her skull.

  “A lot of making up to do,” he whispered, pulling himself off of her.

  He stood up and looked over at her with an air of disgust. “Go and wash yourself,” he said. “Then, you can cook me something to eat.”

  Chapter Nine

  After locking herself in the bathroom—this room lately seemed to be her only refuge from the craziness that had taken over her life—Melissa climbe
d into the bath. The hot, soapy water felt good as it covered her body that now felt bruised, achy, and sore. She leaned her head against the back of the bathtub and closed her eyes.

  The pain was still there. Everywhere. The right side of her head still throbbed violently in protest where Mark had whacked her. Down below, where he had viciously entered and raped her, she felt sore. Never before, until today, had she ever felt violated by Mark. Hurt, yes, but never violated. Right now, she felt a desperate hate for the man, a hate she had not realized she had been capable of feeling. Before stepping into the tub, she had seen drops of blood between her legs, trickling down her thighs. The sight had made her gag, but no vomit came. Only the sour bile rose in her throat from the drink she had earlier in the evening.

  From what she could hear, Mark was downstairs watching TV. It was something he increasingly did in the evenings, now. That was something else Melissa had noticed that had changed in him; whenever Mark returned from work, he used to keep the TV off, preferring to play a CD in the background while he relaxed in the lounge with her, chatting about the day over a glass of wine. They would talk about the business—about anything—but it had been nice. She had enjoyed the attention, the way he had—even after years together—seemed focused on her, eager to hear her talk, and to share their thoughts and feelings. That had died months ago with the onset of Mark’s temper and violence.

  Now, after work, he limply sat in front of the TV set, totally lost in whatever crap he was watching, and it was crap. All of it. Lately, though, he seemed to now enjoy that more than talking to her. He would stare at the screen with an empty, absent gaze, and Melissa often wondered if he was even watching the show; he seemed so far away.

  Melissa ran her hand along the right side of her head. There. She could feel it, now. A lump was beginning to form underneath the hairline. “He was smarter this time,” she said to herself. “Nobody will be able to see this one.” She pressed at the lump and then jerked in pain. It felt like she had been hammered, and yet Mark’s own hands had done the job.

  Reaching for the washcloth, Melissa lathered some soap onto it and began wiping down her body, rubbing the soap along her arms, breasts, stomach, and legs. She deliberately avoided in between her legs, as if touching there would somehow make things worse. She dropped the washcloth onto the side, and without knowing it was even on its way, began sobbing heavily.

  She covered her face with her hands, trying to stifle the sound of her crying out of fear of Mark hearing her and wanting to punish her for doing even that.

  Her whole body trembled, sending small waves across the bath water as she sobbed. She realized this had been building up for some time, that from trying so hard to be strong, logical, and hopeful, she had denied herself the chance to mourn the things that had happened, had not allowed herself to lick her wounds, or to let go and feel what she needed to feel.

  Behind even that, what upset her most was the love she still felt for Mark. The way she missed him. How she needed him back to being the man he was when they met.

  If he couldn’t be who he was—if that person didn’t exist anymore—then, she would have to leave. She couldn’t live like this much longer. Sharon was right—she deserved better than this, was stronger than this.

  Melissa took a deep breath, wiped away the tears, and splashed her face with the warm bathwater. She had to get out and get on with things, at least for now. Downstairs, she could still hear the loud blaring of the TV. At least he was occupied with that rather than being up here moaning, cajoling her.

  Melissa stepped out of the bath and grabbed the bath towel. She quickly ran it up and down her body, dried herself off, then pulled on a plain sweater and jeans.

  Her hair still damp, she wrapped a towel over her head and winced in pain as it tightened against the lump. It was going to hurt for days, she knew.

  She quietly opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. She listened for a moment. The TV was still on.

  Melissa took a deep breath, and unsteady at first on her feet, she began descending the stairs. I have to just get through this, somehow, she thought. Even just tonight. Nothing can be done right now, she knew. You could call the police and get the hell out of there. She imagined Sharon scolding her, and her friend would be right. Maybe that was what she needed to do, but not yet. Not now and not like this. Although she admitted her hope of helping Mark change—or at least get help—somehow seemed distant and barely alive, it still lived on there, somewhere, soaked in memories of how happy they’d been up until recently.

  She reached the downstairs hallway and stopped in front of the lounge, peering through the doorway.

  Mark was standing by the window, his back to her. He was facing the glass, staring outside. Rain spat against the window like the sound of tiny fists against glass. The TV was blaring the evening news loudly, but behind that, Melissa could hear a voice—Marks voice, mumbling.

  She went in, picked up the TV remote and muted the sound. Mark didn’t turn, didn’t move, didn’t say anything.

  Melissa turned to him. She felt nervous. Unsure. “Mark?”

  He didn’t move, didn’t respond. She could hear his voice, low and barely a whisper, as if he was talking to himself. “Mark?” she said louder this time, taking a step closer.

  He was frozen, as if he was made of stone. His back still to her, he continued mumbling, but Melissa couldn’t hear what he was saying. She stepped closer to him, slowly, hesitantly. “Mark?”

  She was beside him, now. She looked up at his face. The way he stared at the glass, his eyes seemed dead, flat, and unseeing. His face looked blank, like an empty page. Melissa couldn’t read anything there.

  “Mark, are you okay?” I’m worried about him after what he did tonight? Disgusted with herself but still unable to walk away, Melissa remained beside him.

  He still didn’t respond, but he whispered, his face pressed to the glass.

  Inching closer now, despite the nerves in her warning her to back away, she strained her ears to listen.

  Standing there, her body close to his, she could hear the words that tumbled out of his mouth. Like broken fragments of glass, they felt sharp as she realized what he was saying.

  “Blood, I want more blood. Blood…I want more blood. I want more blood. Give me more blood. Give. Me. Your. Blood. I’ll drain your blood, Melissa.”

  Melissa backed away, frightened of the being in front of her and wondering if she knew this monster at all.

  Chapter Ten

  He was younger that she expected. Melissa expected psychiatrists to be old men with gray hair and glasses. Stuffy men that lived alone with piles of literature, distant from the outside world. The man in front of her was nothing like that.

  After what had happened the night before with Mark—the way he had slipped into that trance—she had decided right then and there, during her lunch break on shift, she’d try and catch the hospital’s main psychiatrist, Dr. Josh Howell. She had called him in the morning after tracking down his number, asking if he had a spare ten minutes during his lunch break. He agreed, asking Melissa to come see him in his office at one that afternoon.

  His office was on the second floor of the main hospital, the first of a long line of offices she had no reason to visit before. There was a strong smell of bleach along the corridor. It was pungent, almost stinging her eyes. As she passed by, she noted the nameplates on the doors. This was the main area for the psychologists, psychiatrists, and counselors employed by the hospital. Although many of those professionals worked in other wards—such as the mental health unit, the A & E department, and in the community—they were based here, at the rear of the second floor.

  Dr. Josh Howell’s office was bright, colorful, and charming, which surprised her. There were no dull rows of books behind him, no gray sofa lining the wall. Instead, there was a huge window bleeding in bright light
from the sun outside, two large plants looming in two corners behind the desk—giving the room life—and the walls were painted a light orange color. It all seemed at odds with what she had come to expect in a psychiatrist’s office.

  What had shocked her more though, as she knocked, entered, and took a seat opposite the man, was how youthful and energetic he looked. Melissa guessed he must have been newly qualified, but she didn’t say anything as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She placed her handbag on the floor beside her feet and smiled. “Thanks for seeing me.”

  Dr. Howell smiled, too, and it seemed to be sincere to her, warm. His eyes were bright blue, a stark contrast to his thick, black hair. A light carpet of stubble ran the length of his cheeks down to his chin, and he leaned forward on the desk, seeming eager to hear what she had to say. “No problem at all. I usually stay here on my lunch break, anyway,” he said. “I’m like a sad school kid, locking myself away with a packed lunch and avoiding the big kids.”

  Melissa laughed. “The big kids? Who are they?”

  He laughed breezily. “The more senior of the psych department,” he said. “They are a bloody bore to eat with at lunch. I prefer to stay here.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Melissa said. She felt nervous being there. More than that, she felt like she was betraying Mark, somehow. She was there to talk about him, about his change in behavior, and the things he was doing. If he knew, he’d never forgive her. If he knew, she would be hurt, badly.

  Melissa fiddled nervously with her wedding band, which was something she did went she felt on edge. The psychiatrist narrowed his eyes on her, then said, “You look like you are worried.”

  Melissa forced a smile, but she knew it was a weakened effort, anything but real. She felt conscious of herself, of every move and smile, of every word. These mental health professionals were trained to read something into everything. She wasn’t sure she liked that. “I am worried,” she said at last. “That’s why I need to talk to you. I appreciate this, Doctor.”