She’s Not
Gone
By
Sarah Northwood
© 2017 Sarah Northwood. All Rights Reserved.
I’d like to dedicate this story to all those who have inspired and supported me on my writing journey. There are too many to mention but know this, I love you all!
To Jennifer for suggesting I write a short story, which grew into this. Thank you, this novella would never have appeared without you. To my beta readers, Helen, Brian, Jaki, Jennifer, you have saved my sanity, bless you, and all my advance readers, thank you so much! To my ever patient and loving husband, where would I be without you?
For you my dearest readers, if you enjoy this story, I’d be so grateful if you could help me by posting a review on Amazon.
Contents
Prologue
PART ONE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
PART TWO
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Epilogue
Other Titles by Sarah Northwood
Once the illusion is shattered, though the glass may cut your skin to shreds, at last, truth is revealed. Painful, bloody and real.
Sarah Northwood.
Prologue
There’s a big grey void of space between good and bad and I’ve tried my best to live on the good side of the field but like most of us, I’m no angel. I’ve always had a wild streak, a part of me which yearns to go for it. I don’t know the answers on the best way to live your life. All I can tell you is to live it, I guess, the best way you know how. I’ve learned the hard way bad things happen to good people but I suppose this means the same is true in the other direction. Sometimes the wrong ones just seem to get it all though, don’t they? Nature and nurture both have something to do with it I suppose, but which makes which part is not so clear. I wish I could tell you I lived a long and happy life. That my philosophy of jumping first and asking questions later was a good one. I truly wish I could tell you this was true but I can’t. So instead I’ll leave you with this thought, be careful who you hurt on your way up, you never know when you might meet them on your way back down.
E.
PART ONE
Chapter One
The pavement is awkwardly narrow for us to walk side-by-side but we do it because that’s what he wants and I don’t want to risk upsetting him more. The two of us butt up closely together to avoid stepping into the road, so tightly to each other that barely a sliver of light separates our limbs. I’m on the uncomfortable side of the road—closest to the roaring traffic hurtling past us—as we stroll past the pub on the other side. I barely breathe, moving like a soldier with a deadly fear of explosive mines on either side of me. I half push up against him, terrified down to my core that I will stumble out into the road, and half recoil away from him. The pub is freshly painted and gleaming, it looks the same as it always does apart from the fresh coat of paint. The whitewashed bricks, the sign and an open door inviting would-be patrons to step inside its welcoming aromas. Daryl raises his arm to wave at someone who is smoking a cigarette and they wave back smiling. They don’t think anything is wrong, just a happy couple walking together but they can’t see my face from there.
Even if they could, I’m invisible. Nothing more than a discarded wrapper blowing on past. Like me, I suppose the pub needs a lot of maintenance to keep up appearances. It too is perilously close to the danger that hurtles past every day.
Grabbing my hand, he grips my fingers tightly, until they appear almost white, as much a ghost as I am. He relaxes his grip enough that my fingers can move but I’m not going anywhere. I’m his. I don’t dare look up at the people who pass us. I keep my eyes to myself as Daryl smiles and says hello, proud to have me by his side. We carry on walking until the pavement narrows yet further and becomes impassable as a couple. Reluctantly he lets go of my hand and I take the opportunity to rub gently at my sore knuckles.
“Can you walk any slower Katie? You’re like an elephant lopping along,” Daryl says.
A part of me latches on to the words as if they are gold, as if they are a life force that will sustain me. I don’t know which I prefer, the silence or the snide remarks. Daryl strides out in front of me and we walk in single file. Me behind him, he makes sure I know my place. My left leg cramps keeping up with his striding pace, and I puff at the cold air in my lungs, conscious not to dawdle. He glances over his shoulder and for a second I think he’s going to stop. His expressions are unreadable, like he's wearing a mask. I offer him a small smile hoping to soften his anger as he lifts his face to mine, but his eyes don’t warm. The icy cold front continues. Stepping a little closer to the road my foot balances perilously on the edge between safety and death, as an articulated lorry roars past me.
Should I blow out onto the road like the rubbish I am? Would it sweep me away and into the shadows?
My heart pounds heavy in my chest; although I'm terrified of the whooshing noise as the vehicles pass us by, I see myself waiting until a car is approaching, and then simply letting go of whatever is left that binds me to this world. Just then, a swoop of air lifts my skirt slightly and the biting winter cold gnaws viciously at my legs, breaking the spell. With the vehicle passing the thought flies away with it and I continue.
Now my thoughts flit to the small comforts I can daydream about, the things he can’t take from me—my dreams. I imagine I’m at a party, wearing a beautiful dress, having had my hair done earlier that day. I imagine I’d spent the afternoon in the hair saloon, talking about the weather and holidays and all those wonderfully mundane things. Watching the other ladies there admiring themselves in the mirror and flitting about their lives, as if the only worries they have might be when they can return.
For me it's nothing more than a dream. A wonderful temptation that stares at me as though it is a mirage. Still, I torture myself with thoughts of freedom, tasting it as if it will sustain me. I once thought that I was beautiful, and when Daryl and I first met, I know he thought so too. Now he can't stand for others to look at me. If their eyes should rest upon me, it burns into him until later I feel its sting. I do my best to make him happy but secretly long to be myself, to remember who I was. My heart thuds again, like a bass drum off-kilter in my chest. I shake as the adrenaline courses through my body and I try to remember, I am alive. I do exist.
Daryl is fuming with a rage that he keeps tightly hidden to all but me. It started because I burnt the pasta and now we’re on our way to the shop to buy the ingredients to start over. It’s only a corner shop, but it’s reasonably well stocked. Technically it’s not on a corner, it’s a little further along the road, past the pub but within easy walking distance. A local place where everyone knows each other and folks say hello. I wonder if anyone knows me, I wonder if they see me.
It probably won’t have all the things we need for the pasta carbonara but Daryl flat out refused to drive us to the supermarket in the next town along. He always says Sundays are for relaxing. Sundays are for doing nothing, except perhaps having sex and drinking. I push away the thought that he will visit the pub later. I also push away the worry about how much he will drink. I tremble inwardly and hug my arms tightly to my chest.
The village of Fenshawe is our home and has been since the previous September when we moved in together. Things moved fast, some say too fast. Perhaps I needed to be wanted, to feel s
pecial and Daryl had looked at me as if I was the sun that could light his world. After we met in the July, with new life blooming all around us, we went for it. Why not? It felt good and when something feels right you go for it, that’s always been my way. Life is wild and free and there to be lived, or so I thought. It’s amazing how quickly things can change. Perhaps amazing is the wrong word. That implies a wonderful evolution, not the life I’m living. Not the person I am.
Daryl and I lease a ground-floor flat on the upper side of the village. Low rise and newly built, all the flats have one bedroom, designed with a budget to entice new couples and singles alike to its doors. The village is attempting to grasp at modern life despite its rural flavour and doing its best to attract a younger clientele. I haven’t formally met any of the neighbours, I wouldn’t dare to meet them, but I enjoy their comings and goings. The ground floor allows an exclusivity to people watching, yet avoids awkward confrontations in corridors. I watch the passersby from time to time through our large kitchen window, happy, carefree couples coming past. Or notice the woman who lives above us making her way up the back stairs. I don’t know her name but I imagine it to be something sensible, something that holds together well. She has that kind of appearance. Smartly dressed, relaxed. Whoever she is, she is nothing like me.
Attempting to make dinner again, I wield the crockery and few cooking utensils we own, like a well-oiled machine. Despite my nervousness, I’m determined not to make the same mistake as last time. Every movement is a piece of an orchestrated plan and this time I stay focussed. I go to a place in my mind where worries don’t exist. I take myself away from the world, until Daryl’s shouts bring me spinning back to earth again.
“Dear god woman, can you go any slower?”
My hand judders as I put out the placemats and coasters. Arranging the drinks, juggling the food, a task made harder after losing control of my limbs. I dance crazily around the floor tiles, which feel freezing on my feet, relying on the familiarity of practice to save me. I’m wearing very little clothing beneath my apron. I reach up high to get the plates down, stretching up on my tip-toes, letting my knickers show a little. Daryl is watching from the table, smiling seductively. I can see from his face that some of the anger is washing away.
I place his food down first and make sure he has everything he needs before I sit down. He nods to let me know that it’s ok for me to take my place. “How is it?” I ask tentatively.
He shoves in a few large mouthfuls before taking a breath. I see his shoulders drop lower as his body relaxes, and with it so do I. “If only you could have done that in the first place,” he tells me. I gently place a forkful of the creamy pasta into my mouth, careful to avoid the bottom of my lips. It’s sore but I chew. I touch my lip, feeling a crack. A reminder of the cost of my mistakes, of which I know there have been plenty.
Daryl notices my wince as I chew and I see his eyes are wet. “I’m so sorry about before. I don’t know what happened. It was an accident hun. My temper just flew away with me. I promise it won’t happen again,” he says sincerely.
Then he is crying, so I get up and put my arm around him. “It’s OK darling, really it is. It was my own stupid fault.”
I know the anger will return but for now, the Daryl I love is back. The illness, the insecurity, that’s what drives him, the real Daryl away. I must work harder to show him my love is strong enough for the both of us. Sacrifice is what real love is about. Daryl has told me grown up love is hard. I didn’t know it would be this difficult but I made a commitment and I’m not about to go back on my word.
Finished with his food, he springs up from the table and heads to the door.
“I’m off to the pub, babes, with the lads.”
“Love you,” I shout back but he can’t hear. The door closes sharp behind him. I let out a long slow sigh and feel my chest lower as if it’s a deflating balloon. Alone, I’m afraid of the thoughts that will come. Remembering the other me, the one who had faith in the world, faith in herself, so instead I keep busy. I can’t think if I’m busy. Clearing away the dishes, wiping down the table, the place is looking cleaner already. Checking my watch, about twenty minutes have gone by but Daryl has yet to return. I turn my attention to the cushions, beating them to within an inch of their life. Next, I attack the kitchen, wiping until the surfaces sparkle. Before I know it, an hour has passed. That means he’s gone for the night.
I stop for a moment, soaking in the solitude. I start to relax and feel stupid for everything. Shaking it off, I enjoy being free and turn the thermostat up a little higher to get warm. I wonder about putting on my jogging bottoms. I decide I’ll do it later after a bath. They will keep the warmth in.
The flat is cold without much money for heating but the terracotta tiles have an especially keen bite to toes without protection. Daryl likes it when I flit about with little on and I want to make him happy. It works. I laugh at myself. I shouldn’t be surprised that the kitchen is cold, it’s January. What do I expect? It’s cold everywhere.
The lady with the sensible name comes down the staircase, but she doesn’t see me as she walks past. I wonder how long I’ve stood there in a trance, looking through the window. Her hair is nicely done in an up-do, and she is wearing a snug looking double breasted coat. She looks happy. Probably on her way to see a friend or visit her mum. Unlike me, she doesn’t seem to need anybody.
I think about my mum and feel angry with myself for missing her. I try to remember how long it’s been since I saw her last but like my other dreams it is a temptation that I cannot touch. It’s not her I miss—not really. It’s the idea of a mother that I want. Someone who loves me, someone I can run to. But she doesn’t care about me, never had and never would. She blames me for not making Daryl happy, she always told me I was nothing and this is what I deserve. I wonder if she’s right. Briefly I think about calling her. I can’t help hoping she misses me too. Maybe this time would be different? Maybe she'll be sober. Instead, I sit at the table and do nothing. I know nothing’s changed.
I don’t know how Daryl will be when he comes home but I tell myself things could be worse. I have a house, a roof, some food and clothes. I’m luckier than most. I don’t look at the walls as they close in on me and make me claustrophobic. I pretend that I’m not trapped inside a prison. I put some clothes in the washing machine and head on up for a bath. It’s Monday tomorrow and I tell myself there's a lot to look forward to.
Chapter Two
It’s too dark outside to see properly but even if I could, I doubt there would be many people to notice at this hour in the morning. Maybe those with long commutes or early morning meetings and of course, me. I’ve got into the habit of getting up early, I guess in part because I don’t sleep like I used to and in part to give me time to get breakfast ready. I start slowly with a cuppa and mentally warm myself through. The strong and delicious smell of frying bacon fills the air but like all good things there’s a downside, the oil stings my tired eyes and spits at my arms. I try to recall the last time I ate without a knot in my stomach, but I can’t remember, there is a permanent knot inside my stomach. Keeping the bacon warm under a plate, I move out of the kitchen and across to the bedroom.
“Good morning,” I whisper through the bedroom door quietly. There’s an incomprehensible mumble but no signs of movement. Daryl doesn’t set an alarm and there’s really no need as I'm up and about with the birds. It’s nice catching the part of the day before the mayhem arrives. That’s what I tell myself.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” I say a little louder.
I step carefully into the bedroom and place his tea gently on the bedside table. “Your tea is there and breakfast is ready when you want it,” I announce. I open the purple blackout curtains a crack, it lets in a little light to the otherwise gloomy room.
“Thank you,” he replies.
I start to hum quietly under my breath. His quiet gesture of politeness tells me it’s going to be a good day.
“My G
od.” He strides into the small room we think of as the dining room.
My heart stops in my chest for a moment. Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.
What have I done? Oh god, what stupid thing have I done this time?
“I must be the luckiest guy in the entire world. Bacon and a beautiful girlfriend. Have I told you lately how much I love you? Come here.” He puts his strong arms around me and twirls me like a ballerina.
Thank God, I think I see from his smile that he’s happy.
Letting me go, he leans in to kiss my lips, pressing just a little harder than is comfortable. His eyes glance over me as if devouring each part. His mouth is gentle on mine but the tenderness in my lip is still there. Thankfully make up covers the outward signs.
“Do you love me?” I say teasingly.
“Damn, you know I’ve got to go to work,” he replies playfully, as he kisses then twirls me again. My heart beats a giddy rhythm and I know that today is going to be the best.
After he’s left for the office, where I know he will conquer the world of computing, I get myself ready. It’s so easy to pretend everything is ok when Daryl’s happy. As simple as applying concealer and lip gloss to my lips to mask the pain. I’m confident that no-one can see what it's hiding. I’m confident no one is looking. I almost believe my own smiles and pretence. Swinging on my thick coat, I head out to the bus stop. There’s a regular service which comes every thirty minutes and if I’m lucky the timing will be perfect. Despite the cold snap and the dark, the stroll down to the bus stop refreshes me and today I swing my arms a little and walk with a bounce.
The shelter at the stop provides a little respite from the cold and there’s a low hanging fog all around me. As I wait for my ride, the day suddenly doesn’t feel quite as refreshing as it did. I long for the summer and the bright mornings to lift my spirits but I know from bitter experience that its delights are only an illusion. Yet still I believe spring holds a certain promise. A promise of better things and better times to come. Maybe this one will bring something new? Maybe this one will restore my faith in life?
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