by Casey Harvey
she smiled. “Yes, I do own you, Mister Samuel Thomas Johnson. You belong to me now.”
Sam laughed and hugged her. The soup spilled all over his bed, but he didn’t mind. He was happy.
Day 20
The pair of them were walking by the canal. They were both students at the University of Birmingham, both studying Biology together. They had just finished a lecture on the anatomy of cells and were walking back to the halls of residence they shared.
“I made a new friend today,” announced Sam proudly. “Met him in my seminar class. He’s called Sadiq.”
Sandy froze.
“What’s wrong? Did I say something wrong?”
“Sadiq?” she challenged him. “Is he a Muslim?”
“Yes. Quite interesting, too. We went for coffee afterwards and got into a religious debate about Islam and Christianity. There’s a lot I didn’t know.”
Sandy remained silent.
“Sandy, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t like Muslims.”
Sam was taken aback. “Why ever not?”
“Back home in Scotland, there were two in my school. They used to bully me.”
Sam paused for thought. “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean Sadiq is anything like them.”
“It’s what their religion teaches them about women,” she continued. “They just don’t treat us right. I don’t like them. I don’t like him.”
“Who? Sadiq?”
“Yes, Sadiq. I don’t want you to see him again.”
Now it was Sam’s turn to freeze.
“You… don’t want me to see him again?”
“No, I don’t.”
He began chewing his lip slowly in thought, and his brows began to furrow.
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
She planted herself squarely in front of him and stared at him like he was something she’d just found on the bottom of her shoe.
“Yes. I. Can.” She said, in monosyllabic tones. “Now that’s the end of it. I don’t want to hear any more of it.”
“Okay,” said Sam, a bitter edge to his voice. She grabbed his hand and they continued on their way; but something was different ever since that day- or rather, something changed in Sam’s perception of her. There was something he didn’t like about her now. Should he do something about it? Could he? Would he?
In hindsight, he would wonder why he didn’t end it there. The fact was, though, that he didn’t. The thought was in his mind, hovering about the edge of his perception, but he paid no heed to it; leaving her was unthinkable, even after these short three weeks. Even though he began to notice that when they held hands, it was like she was pulling him along against his will, like he did not even matter. Even though he began to notice that she would make all the decisions, and if he tried to make a contribution, she would look at him with derision and scorn. Even though somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that it could only get worse, not better.
Day 33
“Saaaaaaam!”
The cry came from his left; the impact from the same. He had just stepped off the train and was met by the leaping form of his girlfriend crashing into his side, taking him completely by surprise.
She hugged him hard.
“I missed you,” she said. “Did you miss me too?”
“Yes,” he smiled happily, and it was the truth. Despite their disagreement by the canal, despite the fact that since that day a seed had been irretrievably planted in the back of his mind, he had moved past it and was now happily in love with Sandy once more. He had missed her on his weekend at home: he had missed the way they snuggled at night; the feel of her fingertips of his skin; the heights of ecstasy she could take him to on a nightly basis.
They walked hand-in-hand from the train station back to their halls of residence.
“So,” she began, “what did you get up to on your weekend at home?”
“Nothing much,” he replied. “I did some essays, went out for a meal with the ‘rents, went to the pub with some mates. What about you?”
“I missed you!” she said again. “But, I made do. Molly and Susie and I went out to Subway City and got a liiittle bit too drunk.”
Sam smiled. “What do you mean by too drunk?”
“Ten shots of vodka. And five of whiskey. I couldn’t walk home alone that night, so a nice man called Martin walked me back.”
“Martin?”
“Yes, Martin. He was a dream. Tall, dark, handsome; muscular build, and dynamite on the dance floor.”
She noted the look on Sam’s face. “What?” she asked. “I missed you. You were away, so I needed a replacement.”
“A… replacement?” repeated Sam, heart near breaking point.
“We didn’t do anything, if that’s what you’re wondering,” she explained. “Just, you know, flirted a little. It’s what I do. I go to clubs, chase guys and flirt with them. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Sam was silent. “Oh come on, I’ve done it with you before! I always do it! Remember two weeks ago at Subside, I left you at the door and danced with Andy? It meant nothing, remember?”
“I do remember,” Sam murmured. It had happened just like that, and it hadn’t even bothered him. But now it did. Just a little.
And then he looked into her eyes, and resolved to put it behind them. What would he do, leave her? Or start a row with her? He was utterly incapable of rows, he knew that, and he couldn’t face leaving her. It was a matter of morality aside from anything else. A boy of limited experience, he had only ever had one girlfriend before and he remembered what it had been like to dump her. It had been heart-wrenching. It had gone against every moral fibre in his being: he had been faced with a choice between lying to her or hurting her, and either way he would be doing something evil. To abandon someone you allegedly love- well, he could think of nothing worse.
So he put it behind them, in the same place in his head where the incident by the canal was stored.
Day 45
It was a special day: to celebrate nothing in particular, Sam had decided to take Sandy on a day-trip to Stratford-upon-Avon, the birthplace of Shakespeare and home of his museum. For someone as dramatic as Sandy, such a trip was like a pilgrimage.
They stepped off the train and her eyes grew wide.
“I give you- Stratford!” yelled Sam emphatically. “Where do you want to go? The park? The museum? The house that Shakespeare grew up in?”
“I want to drink,” she moaned. “I’m thirsty.”
“That’s alright, too. I’ve printed off a list right here of all the awesome places we can visit to drink while here. Have a peek.”
She looked at the piece of paper shoved under her nose and scanned it for a minute or so.
“That one,” she said eventually.
“That is… The Old Scribe Pub?”
“Yes. I like the sound of that place. It sounds very… dramatic.”
Sam smiled, and so did she. She grabbed the map from his hand and led him by the hand out of the train station and into the town.
It was a glorious little town: thatched roofs of Tudor styling and a park right across from the train station, where an outdoor theatre group was busy performing Othello. Sandy was not interested in that, though, and dashed off to the left and the nearby pub.
When they stepped inside, it fit their expectations exactly. There were Shakespearean references everywhere: a library stocked full of his collected writings; photographs and stencils of famous actors who had frequented this pub; and even a barman who was wearing Shakespearean dress, who seemed utterly un-enthralled with the whole affair and spoke with a bored voice.
“What’ll you be having? Squires?”
“I’d like a beer and you’ll have a- what would you like, dear?”
“A vodka and coke, please,” she smiled up at him.
“And a vodka and coke for the lady, please.”
“Coming right up,” said the barman. “That’ll be six pounds please
.”
“Six pounds… Six pounds…” mumbled Sam as he rifled through his wallet. “Well I’ve got three, and you’ve got how much dear?” he asked Sandy.
She seemed shocked even to have been posed that question. “You’re paying for me, Sam,” she said, in a shocked, offended tone of voice.
“No, but we agreed on this before,” whispered Sam. “I told you that I only have enough money for the train and that I can’t afford to pay for your food and drink when we get here as well.”
“No-oo!” she replied. “You’re paying for me. And you can buy me dinner afterwards, too.”
Sam was astounded. “Sandy, I only have three pounds in my wallet. I can’t afford it.”
“Tough.”
Exasperated, Sam took out his card. He was usually careful with his money, fearful of falling into debt, but since meeting Sandy his spending had gone out of control. His bank account was nearing zero and he was almost peeking into his overdraft facility. Nevertheless, he could not disappoint his girl.
“Six pounds,” he announced, handing the card over to the costumed barman.
When the drinks were served the pair of them found a table. The atmosphere was tense to say the least.
“I’m going to the toilet,” she announced, and disappeared round the corner of the bar. Sam was glad. It gave him time to think, to allow the realisation he had made to sink in a little. Because now he knew that they both had completely different conceptions of what a ‘relationship’ was. He had always thought of it was two equal, individual people enjoying each other’s company, loving one another; she, however, seemed to think it was something to do with dominance and servility.
While she was gone, he got out a pen and paper from his bag and wrote down his thoughts.
She treats me like a cash machine, he complained. That’s all I am to her: someone to use for money when her whim demands; someone to be her ever-willing servant.
She returned, and he hid the sheet in his pocket. He mustered up the courage to speak to her in person.
“Sandy,” he began. “I can’t afford to keep doing this. I thought we were equal in this.”
“No!” she snapped back. “The man has to pay for everything in the relationship.”
He gawked back at her. “Everything?”
“Yes. Everything. Now finish your pint and go and buy me dinner.”
He downed it gladly, for he could not stand to be with her sober. They exited the pub and went on their way.
Day 54
It was three in the morning, and Sam was lying on the bed awake.
He had not been able to sleep for some time now. Of course, it was not his own bed; it was Sandy’s, and she was lying next to him. He had long since lost the freedom to choose where he spent his nights.
They had tried to make love that evening, but the passion was gone. Sam just couldn’t get into it anymore since the day in the pub. He had seen a side of her that he just could not unsee, and he was seeing it every day now: she was in control. She controlled how his money was spent, who he spent his time with, where he spent his nights, everything he did down to a T. It bothered him. It had produced a change in him, and Sandy noticed.
“Who is she?” she blurted out.
“What?” asked Sam. Yet he knew what she was talking about. She had noticed his new lack of enthusiasm and, perhaps logically, had put it down to the intrusion of another woman into her beloved’s life. “No-one, Sandy. There’s no-one else.”
“In fact, why would you even think there was anyone else? Have I ever done anything to give you that idea?”
“No,” she mumbled from beside him sadly. Her back was turned to him, but he could hear her sobbing.
And he didn’t know what to do. They were both sad now, for different reasons, and he didn’t know what to do.
So he settled down in the bed, just as he had done for the past fifty three nights, and tried to go to sleep next to a girl he was finding it harder and harder to love.
Day 60
“Ooh, get you,” she cooed at him as he stood in the entrance to her flat. “Don’t you look suave!”
He was wearing a new suit she had forced him to buy with money from his overdraft. He had not wanted to buy it, of course, but lately his will was growing weaker by the day; if she said “jump”, his place was to ask “how high?”, and he was not supposed to challenge that.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“Do I like it? I love it!” she screamed. “You’re my little prince charming, turned up in a fresh new suit at my door. Ooh, how I love it.”
Sam smiled. “Thanks. You’d better love it for the price it cost me.”
“Shush,” she ordered. And he obeyed. “Now take it off. We don’t want you ruining it or getting it creased.”
He obeyed.
“You know,” she mused thoughtfully, “you’re changing. As a person, you’re changing.”
Sam was alarmed. “How so?”
“In a good way, don’t worry. You’re becoming more… more sophisticated. I like it.”
He smiled a weary smile.
“Oh, can you imagine our future?” she shrilled suddenly. “We’ll graduate in two years and get jobs at a big pharmaceutical company and have lots and lots of puppies and live in a house in London! Oh, isn’t it so exciting?”
He smiled. He nodded. But inside, his stomach was churning: because that vision of his future was precisely not what he wanted. Sandy was right. He was changing. He could feel it daily as he was becoming a different person, ever less himself and ever more… her.
He had to get out.
Day 62
“It’s Tom’s birthday tonight,” said Sam happily, “and he’s invited me to his party.”
“You’re not going.”
“Why?”
“I need you to help me with something tonight. Besides, I don’t like him.”
“You don’t need to. He’s my friend.”
“Not any more. I don’t want you seeing him again.”
Sam glared down at her, thinking of something to say, but his thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Molly, Sandy’s friend.
“Molly!” she shrieked in excitement. She rushed over to her and they embraced happily.
“Sandy!” replied Molly. “How are you? What are you up to?”
“Nothing really. We’re going back to my room and Sam’s going to help me with something important.” A thought suddenly struck her. “But when it’s done, we can meet up! Catch up! It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. How does a bottle of wine and cake sound?”
“Brilliant,” said Molly. “What time?”
“About eight. I’ll come round yours then.”
“So you’ll be done with that thing by then?”
“What? Oh, no. I’ll just leave Sam to continue with it while I come round yours.”
“And Sam’s okay with that?”
“Yeah, he’s fine.”
Molly smiled and looked from Sandy to Sam, then back to Sandy again. “Ah, bless. You two are such a perfect couple. I’ll see you at eight then.”
Sam had been watching the whole exchange with incredulity. He looked at Sandy, mouth agape, ready to say something.
“Not a word,” she threatened.
Day 63
“What are you doing?”
“I’m… going to the library.”
“No you’re not. Come with me.”
And that was that. Sam’s convenient ruse to escape Sandy, hoping he would avoid her after lecture, had failed: she had caught him, and it was back to her room that he was going. Her room, his prison.
She grasped his hand and pulled her away with her. He knew her game now. Holding hands was traditionally seen as something romantic, the way for couples to join together physically as well as emotionally and never be apart, even when they’re out. With Sandy, though, holding hands was another means of control: her physical way of saying you’re going where I want you to go, boy, and th
ere’s nothing you can do about it.
He knew her game in other ways too. Like the way she could be nice for a few days and then nasty again. It was a clever tactic, for it confused him. She was nasty long enough for him to begin to want to leave her, and then all of a sudden she would treat him kindly and he would feel guilty for ever considering it. A repeated process of nice, then nasty, then nice, then nasty, all calculated cleverly to confuse his emotions and leave him not knowing what to do; worse, to leave him feeling that he was the one in the wrong, the one who should be punished.
“You deserve it.” That was her tagline, her catchphrase; the words she used to justify anything mean or selfish she did to him. “You deserve it.” You deserve to lose your freedom to hang out with your friends tonight, because you didn’t text me back within five minutes. You deserve to be made to watch TV shows I know you hate, because you didn’t get me those tickets to that ball I wanted to go to. You deserve it.
The sad thing was that he was beginning to believe it. The repeated pounding of those words into his brain, and the fact that he was now isolated from anything and anyone other than her, meant that her input was the only thing going into his head- and it was beginning to affect his thinking. She had started to set herself up as the arbiter of moral authority, the decider of right and wrong- and most of the time he was the wrong.
Guilt. Guilt was her weapon of choice, but not all of it was inflicted by her.
“I love you,” she said presently, and he cringed. There are only two possible replies to that phrase: “I love you too” or “I’m sorry, I don’t love you.” Or silence, which is as good as the latter.
The problem was that he didn’t love her anymore. He just feared her. And whether it was the influence of her or the influence of his morals, he felt terrible every time he was forced to reply with an “I love you too” because that was a lie. Yet he feared her retribution if he did not say it, and he feared hurting her too- so what was he to do?
Their relationship, which had begun so long ago as something beautiful, mystical and happy, had descended into a mire of despair, a muddy pit with no way out.
Even the Christmas holiday couldn’t save him from his pain.
Day 66
The long-awaited Christmas holiday had finally arrived, and Sam was back home in London.
He still couldn’t escape from Sandy though.
“Sam, your girlfriend’s on the phone,” called his sister Charlotte. “She wants to know why you’ve been ignoring her for the past two days.”
He cringed. Charlotte and Sandy got on well: they would talk for hours on MSN messenger or facebook chat. He wished he could tell her his troubles, but he feared that Charlotte would hate him for it.
“Okay,” he answered. “I’ll go and get it.”
“Where have you been?” snapped Sandy’s voice when he picked up the phone. “I’ve been waiting online for two days. And you haven’t replied to your texts.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” replied Sam. And there it was again: he had managed to hide from it for two, glorious days, but now the guilt came flooding back as soon as he heard her voice. “I’ve been… busy.”
“That’s what my boyfriend said to me just before he dumped me,” called Charlotte from the background. Sam beckoned her to be quiet. She was not helping.
“Who’s that? Is that another woman?”
“It’s my sister, Sandy. My sister Charlotte. I’m certain I’ve mentioned her.”
A pause. “Yes, you have. I remember now. But don’t change the topic.
