by Kendra Leigh
When I turn a page and see my own face staring back at me, I’m stunned. Amid the cute little characters she’s created, the portrait sketch of me seems misplaced, somehow. She’s captured every fine detail, every nuance and crease and shadow, almost as if I sat for her—which I know I didn’t. She must have memorized my features as I did hers, and I wonder if she, too, now has trouble picturing me or if she’s even bothered trying. I shake my head at the irony. She has my photograph of her and I have her portrait of me. It’s as if fate is trying to tell us something—forget and move on.
I’m about to close the folder and take it back up to my apartment when I notice that the front page in the next plastic sleeve is crumpled at the edge. I can see how much pride Savannah takes in her presentation, and while this precious item is in my possession, I feel compelled to do the same—to keep it in the pristine condition it deserves to be kept. With this in mind, I carefully remove the bundle of sheets to straighten the edge, checking the sheets of paper beneath are all in-line too. One page stands out. I can’t work out why at first, but then I realize it’s the overall format of the text. Unlike all the other short bursts of words written in story form, this is a poem. I read on.
Cold Heart
Cold is the heart when it turns away in shame
A frozen block of ice to numb the pain
It beats violently
In unity
With the hammering down below
The chill a welcome distraction
To the insistent
Persistent
Burning invasion
The load shifts
The encumbrance now a weight
Dead
Between my shoulder blades
Impeded, I gasp
Gulp
Fight
For air
Seconds to spare
Panic rises as the smothering takes its toll
Lungs deflating
Ice heart racing
To douse the fiery flame
Cold sweat erupts to soothe
To tame
To calm my fevered skin
Buying precious moments of respite
Until I can breathe again
Bones creak beneath the jerking frenzy
Venom spilling onto tainted skin.
Dark shadows fall
Indignity crawls
Inside my soul
To pollute
To torture
To maim
Cold is the heart when it turns away in shame
Despite the airless heat in the basement garage, my blood runs ice cold, my stomach burning with a sudden influx of nervous acid. I feel like I’ve stumbled upon some kind of vile image, something that the eyes can never un-see and which will continue to haunt me for the rest of my days. In contrast to the innocence of the children’s stories and even the misplaced sketch of me, these words seem absurdly out of place—conflicting and contradictory to everything else the folder encompasses. The words in this poem are dark and sinister, even more so because they’re open to interpretation; the reader can’t be certain of the message intended by the writer. I deliberately use the term ‘writer’ broadly in order to disconnect these words from Savannah, although I’m in no doubt as to who the author of this poem is; it’s penned in the same handwriting as everything else in this folder. My mind can’t correlate the profound significance of the words with the petite, sunny Savannah I came to know—or it doesn’t want to. I don’t know a lot about poetry, if anything at all, but I know about assault and abuse, and that’s what these words scream at me. They conjure up visions of violence. Rape. Shame and oppression. Unleashing long forgotten memories of failure and regret, loss and weakness, of a world I once knew and never want to return.
Slowly, I close the folder and lean forward, pushing it as far under the passenger seat as it will go. I get out and, just like my past, close the door on it.
Just like it never existed.
Part Two
Chapter Twenty-Two
Savannah
Perception
Perception
An idea, a conjured vision
Formed from senses
Sound, smell, and sight
A mere desire to be held tight
Not real
Interpretation
My version
Of a dream
Perfect illusion
Cruel delusion
Amounts to the same
Duped heart
Played like a game
A concept
Blinkered
Blind
Deception of the mind
Until reality rears its ugly head
And in the cold light of day
All hope is dead
I’ve thought a lot about the psychology of perception over the last couple of months since my time with Jackson in the cabin in the woods. How perception differs from reality in that’s it’s something we interpret from the senses we experience, ultimately from what we see and hear, whereas reality is formed from events that actually take place. When the lines between the two are blurred, it’s hard to comprehend the difference, to distinguish fantasy from reality. They say seeing is believing, and although the false illusion I created was amplified by half-truths, I believed what I saw and I saw what I wanted to see. My perception of what happened between Jackson and I was nothing more than an illusion, but it was a perfect illusion, and if I had the choice to either keep it as it is or erase it from time as if it never happened, I wouldn’t change a single thing.
As I stare at the words on the page, the single poem in a brand-new folder, I realize how much they have helped me put everything into perspective. Words are my therapy, a way to purge my emotions, and as I secrete the new folder away at the back of a drawer, I wonder about the whereabouts of my old one—dozens of stories hiding countless secrets that were never really intended for anyone else’s eyes.
After placing my backpack and folder into the trunk of the Beetle on my return from the cabin, I’d been confined to the house for days. When I finally ventured out to the park for the first time, the Beetle was gone. For a time I wondered if Nick was responsible, that somehow he’d discovered its existence, but then I figured the neighbors had just got tired of an old beat-up car parked up on their street and it had just been towed away. I thought of my words being crushed and incinerated along with any dreams or hope I’d ever dared to have.
I wonder, often, about recreating the stories I wrote and the little creatures I drew, and one day I will—but I’ll never be able to capture the details of Jackson’s face on paper again as long as I live. I tried hard to commit him to memory, but drawing him was my way of supporting my recollection if it ever began to fade. I don’t know, maybe it’s a good thing I have nothing left to refresh my memory. Perhaps it’s the easiest way to try to forget.
As for my diarized poems, well I’m sure there’ll be plenty more where they came from, although things have been far better of late. Some of that I’m sure is because of the choking incident in the garden; I believe Nick genuinely scared himself that night. But mostly I suspect it’s because I’ve taken a stance of sorts.
When I finally left the bedroom after Shadow, I found Nick practically beside himself. He apologized profusely, over and over again, swearing he would get some help, promising it would never happen again. I didn’t believe him, of course. I’ve heard it all before, but instead of being too afraid to do anything other than just accept his apology, I used the situation to my advantage. I told him that as his OCD tendencies no longer appeared to be an issue for him—given the state of the place when I returned—that I felt it was unnecessary to spend almost my entire day cleaning and organizing. In addition—and especially as I didn’t have the Beetle to hide my secret wardrobe anymore—I wanted to choose my own clothes, wear what I wanted to wear; there would be no more Post-it notes, no more dictating what I wore.
If I said I wasn’t trembling with nerves when he star
ed at me for several minutes while contemplating my caveats, I’d be lying. This is the first time I’ve dared to use Nick’s behavior against him—and the first time I’ve realized that it’s a very effective tool. The last thing he wants is for me to leave and blow his world, as he knows it, wide open. So when I boldly added that if he was serious about working on his control issues then this would be a good place to start, he finally agreed.
My courage, having paid off, has spurred me to push the limits even further. At night I’ve begun locking my bedroom door, a step I never would have previously dared to take, but it is so worth it. The first few times I saw the door handle turn but refuse to open, I was almost sick with nerves, terrified it would send him into a fit of rage, but now I listen to his whiskey laced cuss words as he staggers back along the hall with a sense of jubilance and utter relief.
It hasn’t all been plain sailing, though.
Last night he caught me off guard. When he didn’t return from work at his usual time, I assumed he was out drinking again. I did my best to conserve his meal so that it wouldn’t spoil and went off to take a shower before bed, but I made the error of forgetting to lock my bedroom door. I didn’t hear him return because the water was running, but I felt a familiar sense of unease as soon as I switched off the shower. Without even drying, I pulled on my robe, eager to cover myself, and stepped out into my bedroom. Nick was leaning against the doorframe leading to the hall, his eyes glazed with the effects of alcohol, whiskey breath and arrogance wafting across the room.
“You ate without me.” His slurred words were more of an accusation than a statement of fact.
“I wasn’t sure what time you’d be home. I saved you some, though. It should still be warm if you’d like me to check?” I moved to go past him, hoping to lure him away from my bedroom, but his arm reached out yanking the neck of my robe, exposing my shoulder.
“Not hungry.” He started laughing sardonically. “Not for food, at least.” His fingers slid over my damp shoulder. “Well looky here. That’s a first. My wife all wet when you’re usually so fucking frigid. Come on, then.” He moved over to my bed, shifting a pillow to the center of the mattress, patting it lightly with his hand. “I’ll let you make it up to me.”
I didn’t struggle or cry. I even mostly managed to control the panic when he forced his knee between my shoulder blades and face into the pillow, zoning out just enough to get through the pain and fear of suffocating. As much as I could, I held on to my dignity, and I know my refusal to crumble unsettled him, just as it was supposed to.
The incident was a reminder that Nick is still in control despite his recent diluted behavior, but it was an unnecessary one. I’m not under any illusion that my husband is a changed man, so it didn’t come as a surprise to me. In fact I’ve been waiting for it.
Sometimes I catch him staring at me, his eyes dark with harbored resentment. Although, outwardly, it looks as if progress has been made; I know that just beneath the surface of his seemingly milder, more amenable exterior lurks the monster that he really is, ready and waiting to strike. Recently he’s been erring on the side of caution, partly to take stock of himself, partly to lure me into a false sense of security, but I know better than to underestimate him. Mishandling this situation would be foolish at best. I need to be vigilant. And I need to learn to manage him. To a degree, I guess that’s the way I’ve always had to be around him, but in the past it’s been through fear and self-preservation. This time there’s an end game to work toward.
And it’s called revenge.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Savannah
A WRY SMILE TILTS THE edge of my lip as I gaze at the black satin cocktail dress—it’s beautiful. It’s the nicest dress I think I’ve ever owned and it hadn’t even been my favorite one in the boutique. The red one had been my favorite, but I know that the red would be a step too far.
When Nick announced that the company had been sent an invitation to attend a corporate event and he wanted me to accompany him, I was staggered. I have never gone along to any organized industry event. Ever. The extent of my involvement with anything related to the business, or the people in it, has been restricted to the odd dinner party with three of the board members and their spouses, but only when it’s Nick’s turn to host and strictly for appearances sake. When the dinner is being held by one of the others, Nick makes up excuses as to why I’m a no-show, inventing illnesses and God knows what else.
The invitation was specifically addressed to Mr. Nick and Mrs. Savannah Harper, with six further tickets for the other board members and their wives. It was being held by some big shot business tycoon, Nick said, and would provide networking opportunities with some very useful contacts, maybe even put the feelers out for potential investors. When I asked why the company might need investors, he waved his hand dismissively, declaring that he was just being hypothetical—you never know what the future will throw at you.
Hanging the dress on the front of the closet door, I reach for the shoebox, lifting the lid to reveal a brand-new pair of black pumps, the heel size manageable for someone like me who’s not terribly used to heels yet high enough to elongate my calves. I feel excited—not about going out with Nick but about dressing up and stepping out of my mundane life for an evening. He looked nervous when I told him I needed something to wear for such an event, but he agreed and even gave me his credit card to go to the boutique with the instruction to buy something sensible. I’m not sure what that meant or if the dress I bought fits that criteria, but it’s the one I’m determined to wear. I’ve even teased my hair into relaxed waves, and as I open the drawer to retrieve the tiny bit of makeup there—some gloss, blush, and mascara—I feel the first touch of nerves.
The last time I dared to wear makeup was probably about twelve months ago. Nick announced as he left for work one morning that it was our turn to host the monthly dinner party. It was his thing to give me as little notice as possible, no doubt hoping my failure to deliver would give him reason to punish me, but I never did. This particular time, I worked like a dog all day, making sure the house was in perfect shape, going out to buy groceries and still providing an immaculate three course dinner for eight. It hadn’t left much time for me to get cleaned up, though, so I simply pulled a brush through my hair and ditched my jeans for the dowdy dress with the Post-it note attached.
The women looked me up and down when they arrived, all with distinct expressions on their faces. Diane, Rob’s wife, was simply a snob, and if what you wore wasn’t designer, then you were beneath her and very little attention was paid your way. Marian, God bless her, was married to Tom and the quieter and older of the three women. Her face showed pity and kindness, and although in the past I’ve noticed her flinch at the way Nick’s spoken to me, she’s never extended the concern further than a discreet, sympathetic smile. Finally there was Helen, wife of John, who did as he was told mainly because it meant an easy life and he could spend his summer evenings and weekends on the golf course if he smiled and nodded when he was supposed to. He turned a blind eye to Helen’s outrageous flirty banter, which, more often than not, was aimed at Nick, who reciprocated openly. One of the reasons why I spent most of those evenings staring at my plate was to hide my crimson shade of humiliation.
Helen always dressed immaculately, her attire usually aimed at accentuating cleavage or leg, sometimes both. She always wore a bright red lipstick—a shade I often found on the collar of Nick’s shirts after one of these evenings—and heavy dark eye makeup. It suited her. She looked sexy, glamorous, and confident. In truth, though she was at least ten years older than me, I envied her. Apparently, I also amused her. Her eyes narrowed, lips curling into a mocking smile as they skimmed over my face, hair, and dress, then remarking that I must have been hard at it as I’d forgotten to get ready, she offered to help Nick serve drinks and keep an eye on things in the kitchen while I dressed.
Shame sent me scurrying for the stairs and my room where I sat in front of the mirror
wondering what to do and where the hell to start. If I went back down as I was, I risked being punished for embarrassing him, and if I changed it would be seen as insubordination. The thing that propelled me toward the closet in search of a change of dress was the contempt on Helen’s face. I hadn’t slaved in the kitchen all day to have her look down her scornful nose at me. After digging out a more suitable dress—one I hadn’t worn in years—I pinned my hair up and applied blush and some lipstick. Just as I was about to return to the others, Nick entered the room, profanities and spittle flying from his mouth as he demanded to know why the fuck he’d been left to serve drinks to our guests and what the hell that fucking burning smell was. When his eyes rested on my appearance, his complexion changed to a ruby shade of fury, while mine drained of color altogether.
A scouring pad and toilet cleaning detergent was used to scrub my skin clean of makeup that night, my face forced into the toilet bowl until I gagged on the flushing water. The swelling took over a week to go down completely, my skin red and broken for so many days after that I worried it would never recover.
Apparently, he told our guests I’d come down with a sudden migraine and wouldn’t be joining them after all, but I hoped they enjoyed the dinner I prepared. I sat hidden in the shadows at the top of the stairs, listening to their laughter, their voices getting louder, their words more slurred the more wine they drank. Later Nick followed Helen into the hallway to help her into her coat. He pressed her up against the wall while his mouth smeared her lipstick and his hand found its way under her skirt, and as he pumped his fingers into her, I could swear her eyes looked up searching me out in the dark, a triumphant smirk on her lips making her suddenly quite ugly. My only thought was that while she was taking pleasure from working my husband up into a lather, it would be me that had to suffer later when he sought his release.