Beyond the Pale

by E. J. Wood

  Forever yours Guy x.’

  Xxx’

  ***

  Tears draw lines on my cheeks, as I search for answers where none existed. This heart of mine has a wound that will not heal. It is a surprise it is still alive for the wound is deep from a sharp knife filled with love that turned to poison. Guy is my fantasy, my gentle breeze, the wind beneath my wings.

  ‘Amelia is everything?’

  ‘Laura, do you believe that pleasure can ever be sinful, where you know you shouldn’t but you do?’ at that she shrugs and looks back down at her food.

  ‘I have never been one to comment you know that.’ Her uneasiness is obvious as she stands up and walks towards the sink.

  ‘I need some time on my own for a moment.’ I leave my food at the table and shamble towards my bedroom, collapsing on the bed, a single bed, for one. Crying, I burrow my head into my pillow. I switch on the radio and hear “Tori Amos” bleating on about “cornflakes.”

  For how much longer will I have to resist the pain? How much longer will I have to endure to resist? And to count every minute every day that I do not have him even though it’s wrong. I try to hold the bright moon, the brilliant sun and stay away from anything bad. I will turn the entire sky and wash myself of it for if by chance I ever saw him I’d have to turn away. I just couldn’t bear it, these mixed feelings. He tried to hurt me! Or did he? For how much longer will he live in the storm of my mind? I, without validity, realise that logic is the only friend of a crazy person. Am I crazy? For Guy, I would beg, bare shame, stand in front of a firing squad and smile as if it were a feast, not saying a word. I’ll never taste again a kiss from his lips, yet one kiss is enough to make me forget everything. I’ve missed more than anyone can imagine. I want to leave it all, friends, work and my home without looking back. I am ashamed to admit this for I ask myself how much longer can I hide? I can’t stand it. When I laugh, inside I cry but with so many lies how can I love him? How can I love him for what he has done? It is hard to decide between what my head is saying and what my heart is feeling.

  I wish I could drink the water from the spring of oblivion, to erase the memories and all kinds of pain. Still, I was asking for one more kiss no matter how much the pain carved. How much longer will he torture me? I cannot sleep, I am his. In his arms I am someone else, someone more like myself.

  Can a heart truly be broken, if it is only a muscle? I sit up in bed wiping the tears from my cheeks trying to reason with myself singing lightly “who is it wakes me from my sleep who is it has my heart to keep? no one, no one, but him.”

  Walking over to the window, I notice it is still dark. Laura enjoyed an early rise, moon still shining bright. I look up towards the moon and quietly ask.

  ‘Where are you? Take me away, I will follow my heart and believe in fate, life is too short to love but hate. You need to see him again Amelia, my subconscious reassures me and I rifle through my paper work in search of a plain sheet of paper. I place pen to paper I begin to write.

  ‘Dear Guy,

  Currently I’m sat with the bright moon staring down on me through the window. I question why I’m still here, but you are right, the moon is never larger than my thumb at any given time. I cannot express or explain how many shattered pieces once made up my heart and as wrong as it may seem I find myself seeking, seeking you. You are right; life is about creating oneself and to sit here with ragged nails, chewed stubs feeling sorry for myself is not the way forward. You are a crazy bastard and I find myself lost without your touch, your smell, your incandescent aroma prevailing around me. I need you. I close my eyes and I can see you, I can feel the touch of your hand and I can smell you. You entered my life and now you are gone. Your voice sends me reeling and in the night I feel you but my mind lies, you aren’t here. Have you ever been in love before Guy? I don’t think I have. I feel vulnerable. It tears at my chest and wants to allow you inside. My mind tells me no, you cannot enter, you cannot mess me up, but the truth is, you already have. I build up defences, this wall of armour so no one can hurt me. The untouchable they called me and then someone walks in. I allow them in, inside my heart, and they do something stupid and smile at me, and caress me then suddenly love takes me hostage and eats me alive and leaves me in a place of darkness. Love never gives up, it cares more for others than itself, it doesn’t want what it doesn’t have, doesn’t strut, does not force itself on others, does not keep score of the sin of others, doesn’t revel when others grovel and most importantly if I speak with eloquence and don’t love then I’m nothing. I’m nothing without you. You are my everything. I am a guarded person, I don’t break easily, at least I didn’t think I did. I’m a hard person to get to know and keep most people at a distance. I do not like to be vulnerable. During our parting I have been thinking of my error, vulnerability is not the weaker position, being vulnerable is not weak when in the pursuit of love. How ironic that you take the stronger position, to put my heart on the line and give it to you to keep or break and expose all of who I am. This is me, I am strong and I am true. You ask yourself Guy, are you weak or are you strong?

  Always your Amy.’

  ***

  ‘Laura,’ I call capturing her attention as she cleans the kitchen.

  ‘Yes?’ she answers turning around wiping her hands, ‘what’s wrong?’ Her brows furrow and she drops the tea towel, rushes towards me and places her hands either side of my shoulders.

  ‘It’s him.’

  ‘I knew it had to be, I thought he was dead,’ she scowls.

  ‘He is far too clever for that, besides,’ I pause pressing my lips into a firm line shaking my head from side to side ‘something is off.’

  ‘Amelia please, he kidnapped you, tied you up and was going to kill you!’

  ‘I don’t believe that’ I shake my head.

  ‘You are in denial.’

  I snort, she doesn’t know him like I do and I reframe from arguing with her and hold up my envelope.

  ‘I need you to post this.’

  ‘You are making a big mistake,’ she advises, not that I asked for it, so much for not interfering.

  ‘That’s for me to make,’ I scowl.

  ‘You give him a rim job and you are all over him like a rash.’

  ‘Back off.’

  ‘I bet it was like a pencil anyway,’ she scowls waving her little finger up and down.

  ‘How dare you.’

  ‘You stupid naïve bitch,’ she shouts and spits her vicious words pointing her finger in front of my face.

  ‘Hey, just some advice, don’t point your finger at crazy fucking people.’

  ‘Then you are suited for one another,’ her words softened as she realised she stepped too far. ‘There is no address,’ she murmurs.

  ‘No need for one, he will find it; he always does.’ I hand her the envelope simply addressed to Guy Davidson.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then I go and see Dr Clarke. Will you be here when I get back?’

  ‘Possibly, I have an appointment with a self deprecating client though, in…’ she glances at her watch, ‘thirty minutes.’

  ‘Not a bon viveur then?’

  ‘I’m impressed, unfortunately no. I believe you know each other!’

  CHAPTER 14

  Prologue

  On August 23rd, 1973 two criminals carrying machine guns entered a bank Kreditbanken at Norrmalmstorg in Stockholm, Sweden. One of the escapee prisoners named Jan-Erik Olsson announced to the terrified bank employees “the party has just begun!”

  Four hostages, three women and a man were held captive for one hundred and thirty one hours, each strapped with dynamite and held in the bank vault until finally rescued on August 28th.

  Once the hostages had been rescued they showed an unremarkable attitude, displaying fear from law enforcement and support towards their captors, believing they were protecting them. Some of the hostages had bonded with their captors even going to lengths of funding criminal legal fees. The term was coined b
y the criminologist and psychiatrist Nils Bejerot as ‘Norrmalmstorgssyndromet’ (Swedish) but it became known as ‘Stockholm Syndrome’ abroad.

  I went to the arranged appointment with Dr. Clarke to discuss the fears I had about Stockholm’s Syndrome.

  Dr Clarke was most definitely trained in how to talk and an expert in developing this therapeutic relationship with me. His room was spatial yet the decor and furniture dated back to the early 80's and today might get rejected as a donation by the Salvation Army. There was a tacky plastic water feature on one of the tables, and an inspirational quote on the wall sign written, but obviously someone has re-decorated and tried to edge around it. How can Dr Clarke possibly give advice on spatial awareness and reassurance when his office is quite clearly the opposite?

  ‘Amelia,’ he beamed hand outstretched. I had hoped he was cold, arrogant and frumpy but he wasn’t, quite the contrary. An uninviting olive green colour chaise longue is off to one side and he urges me to lie. Beside it is a small table with a box of tissues. He is clever and intuitive with a chiselled jaw line, dreamy eyes and wears a well-fitted suit. ‘Amelia, from what you have explained to me I sincerely believe that it had been extremely traumatic. A strategy for survival for victims of abuse and intimation such as yours can be used by an abuser, as Guy may be to bond emotionally.’

  There isn’t much I have to say and I remain seated listening to the consultation.

  ‘Amelia, I want you to listen, you did the right thing, in fact, it’s often encouraged in crime situations as it improves the chances for survival of the hostage/hostages. Local law enforcement personnel have long recognised this syndrome with battered women who fail to press charges, bail their battering husband/boyfriend out of jail and even physically attack police officers when they arrive to rescue them from a violent assault. I firmly believe that the feelings you are experiencing are merely because there was a presence of a perceived small kindness from the abuser - Guy to you. Guy, I’m sure was an extraordinarily passionate lover. However, many psychopaths’ find themselves in a constant race against time which usually runs out when the balance of power in the romantic relationship shifts dramatically in the psychopaths’ favour. Picasso describes this process quite poetically when he tells his mistress,

  Francoise Gilot:

  “We mustn’t see each other too often. If the wings of the butterfly are to keep their sheen, you mustn’t touch them. We mustn’t abuse something which is to bring light into both of our lives. Everything else in my life only weighs me down and shuts out the light. This thing with you seems to me like a window that is opening up. I want it to remain open. We must see each other but not too often. When you want to see me, you call me and tell me so.” (My Life with Picasso, 53-4).

  Guy wasn’t born a criminal, he was made one through years of systematic abuse more than likely family related. Call him a Psychopath, whatever comes to mind but these people may begin romantic relationships on an equal footing with their partners but, ultimately, they aim to end up on top. For themselves, they tend to adopt a pseudo-Nietzschean attitude towards conventional morality. They violate, with an air of entitlement and superiority, all moral principles. At the same time, they generally expect an almost fundamentalist prurience from their main partners. Amelia, I want you to read this study and when you have finished, call me.’

  He hands me a folder entitled Study conducted by Sandra L. Brown, M.A. in Women Who Love Psychopaths.

  ‘If I can assist you in any other way Amelia please do not hesitate to call.’

  ‘Thank you I will be in touch.’ At that I rise shaking his hand and leaving en route back to Laura’s. Women who love psychopaths? Who has exactly coined Guy as a psychopath? Don’t read it my subconscious advises. I climb into the sweltering hot car that is parked outside Dr. Clarke’s office, sit back, close my eyes and question myself Can you trust anyone? Can you trust yourself? For sacrifice will turn to revenge and believe me you’ll see the face who’ll say; I love you, I’ll kill you.

  I pull up outside Laura’s clutching the folder tightly. I’m intrigued, what exactly does this study entail? I make it as far as the kitchen table and open the contents of the folder. Sandra L. Brown MA CEO The institute for Relational Harm Reduction and Public Pathology Education

  Shut it – she demands, my subconscious staring angrily beside me. Closing the folder, I sigh. This wasn’t me, not now, not ever. In the beginning a relationship can start off as something that we want but in the end something we cannot do without. Love doesn’t exist, do you believe in love? For some people it is merely a survival tactic, games, provocative mind games that people try to reject. They try to kill love. His glance, his touch, his kiss were all meant to deceive me and every truth was an illusion and every moment is a lie. One sin leads to another, this is life and you cannot walk away from love. How far would you go?

  ***

  Another letter lies on the kitchen table; Laura must have put it there. Distraught my lips part, eyes widen and I look straight ahead into oblivion. My fingers hold the letter either side in front of me, as I open it I drop the letter to the floor. It descends as if in slow motion swaying from side to side scenting the air with its lavender essence as it falls between my feet. I gasp, winded for a slight moment as my heart flutters like a bird trapped inside a cage too small. I am sorrow, would be the only way I can describe this emptiness I now have and sorrow does have a human heart. I wish for this night to last a lifetime with the darkness surrounding me, to be going down with the sun weeping, to fall asleep, but with him…

  I have to be strong, take my heart and memories back, I can’t take it anymore. I’ve cried my eyes out; I just want it to end. Hunting shadows in the darkness either to kill or be killed are creatures that merely walk beside us everyday disguised as human beings. I just can’t take it anymore. Guy, you leave me breathless, your voice echoing through catacombs inside my mind. I’ve often dreamed of revenge to turn back time and do things differently, to make your love pure but every time I dream the outcome is the same. You were reckless with your love, you leave and I’m breathless left alone. It is questionable whether Guy and I come under the term sadomasochism. I fight with the urge to plunge myself into deep mental torture but surely I didn’t fall into this category. Yes you do, my inner voice murmurs. Guy on the other hand seems quite at ease sexually gratifying him-self by inflicting pain and humiliation yet would his falling into the Sadist role, render me the Masochist?

  ‘Ahhhh,’ I scream at my frustration. I write him a letter in response.

  ‘Dear my Guy Davidson aka Martin Kennedy,

  Our last meeting burns inside my memory like candle wax to my skin. Reliving each moment every day, you will be glad to know the nightmares have ceased yet I’m haunted by another. I fell in love with an illusion, or did I? Who did I fall in love with? I’m terrified of my feelings towards you, wanting to see you. In the words of Shakespeare himself, I know you will appreciate “This life, which had been the tomb of his virtue and of his honour, is but a walking shadow; a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing” I did see your love of Keats so “ask yourself my love whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so destroyed my freedom. Will you confess this in the Letter? You must write immediately and do all you can to console me in it—make it rich as a draught of poppies to intoxicate me—write the softest words and kiss them that I may at least touch my lips where yours have been. For myself I know not how to express my devotion to so fair a form: I want a brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair. I almost wish we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days—three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain. But however selfish I may feel, I am sure I could never act selfishly:”

  Please meet me. Your Amelia.’

  ***

  Many years ago. The girl of about thirteen ye
ars old with cupids’ bow red lips and dimples that pressed into her small cheekbones on her pale complexion had a few dotted freckles over her nose. She cried. Her eyes were sorrowful and with soft un-manicured nails her hand wiped her face from the tears that engraved themselves into her pale ashen cheeks. Her clothes were ragged, old and dirty. She walked away with her dreams shattered, feeling neglected by everyone especially those that she trusted.

  She shrivelled against the stark, chill of the unwelcoming town she walked towards. Her feet were bare and dirty and she remembered “you will never amount to anything, never, useless, the black sheep, no good for anyone, no one loves you, no one ever will” these words engraved in her mind. A heavy black cloud followed her, her chest rises up and down rapidly as she tries to control her palpable fear that went unnoticed by passers by. She rubbed her backside, sore, red and tender, not an uncommon feeling.

  Her lips a soft pale pink trembled and her eyes glistened with tears. The woman she loved and cherished stood before her sapping the undeniable strength and enthusiasm the young blonde girl once possessed. She remembered her mother, once young, vibrant and full of life. She was a stunning woman who always turned heads. The perfect hair, makeup and wearing floral dresses made her the woman any man would appreciate on their arm. Then, one day there was no one, just the girl and her mother. The smiles disappeared, the zest for life vanished and life became dull and obsolete. As quickly as the girl remembered the past, she returned to reality staring at her mother. A year had passed since everyone disappeared and her mother appeared gaunt, grey, bones and muscles exposed from the drug. The drug the girl would never forget.