by Selena Kitt
‘Um…I usually catch up on housework and stuff,’ I lie.
He takes a sip of chocolate. ‘You know I mentioned about ways you can get rid of anger?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you want to try it tomorrow? Even if you don’t realize it, anger’s a big emotion that people who’ve suffered this kind of trauma have to cope with. Except usually it’s directed at themselves and not the people who deserve it.’
I know all about the anger, how it feels like a coiled serpent inside, wanting to lash out and bite at a second’s notice.
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘We could go to the gym. I’ll show you how to hit a punch bag.’ He pauses. ‘Then maybe we could get some lunch.’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t really like crowds.’ But the thought of not being alone on a Sunday inside my flat for once is so tempting. It makes me feel more positive, and that’s what I want to be. Positive Grace. Happy Grace. Carefree Grace.
‘I can understand that,’ he says. ‘But I’ll be with you.’
And somehow, that’s enough to make me say, ‘Yes. OK.’
We sit in silence. I like the way he doesn’t ask me about the book and the journal. He doesn’t pressure me. But I don’t want him to leave yet, so I tell him anyway.
‘I read the book you gave me.’
‘What did you think?’
‘I think you were right. That woman was so strong and courageous.’
‘So are you.’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t feel strong.’
‘You will. It doesn’t happen overnight.’
‘I think…’ I trail off, not quite sure what to say. Again, he doesn’t prompt me to speak. He sits there and waits patiently. Always patient. ‘I think it helped. Reading about how she put her life back together. It gave me hope that I can do the same.’
‘Hope is the antidote to fear. Having hope and faith in the power of women survivors will lessen the fear you feel.’
‘Thank you,’ I say again, even though I’ve said it so many times lately it’s as if I’m stuck on repeat.
‘You don’t have to thank me.’ He shrugs, as if it’s nothing.
But it’s not nothing.
What he’s doing for me is so huge I can’t even begin to describe it.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ben
I wait outside the gym for her on Sunday morning. I’ve been up since five a.m. giving the punch bag in my flat a good seeing to. I didn’t suggest she come to my place to do this. Being alone with me on my territory is probably too much, too soon, and it seems like we’re making progress, so I don’t want to frighten her off.
I can’t wait to see her again, though, and it scares the crap out of me. Even though she’s not ‘officially’ a client of mine, I’m probably breaking so many counsellor-client rules I can’t even imagine.
As she parks her car and gets out, all those thoughts vanish.
She approaches me with hesitant steps. When she gets closer, the first thing I notice is she’s wearing less makeup. Today, she’s only hiding behind mascara and lipstick, none of the thick eyeliner and eye shadow she’s worn before. She doesn’t need any of it, to be honest.
‘Hi.’ She gives me a wobbly smile.
‘You look great.’ I give her what I hope is a killer smile in return, my gaze roaming over her face. I’ve only ever seen her in her uniform, and today she has on black jogging bottoms and a black T-shirt. She’d look amazing even if she were dressed in an old sack.
She looks puzzled for a moment, as if she can’t believe I’ve given her a compliment, and again I want to punch her ex so hard my fingers twitch. But that’s what the punch bag is for, and that’s why we’re here.
‘Er…thanks.’ She squints up at me through the morning sunlight then looks away, her cheeks flooding with colour.
‘You ready to kick some arse?’ I smile.
She laughs. ‘I think so.’
We dump our bags in the respective changing rooms, and I meet her by the punch bag. For ten minutes, I demonstrate how to hit the bag properly so she doesn’t injure herself. She nods and asks a few questions.
I step behind the black leather bag to hold it steady for her. ‘OK, so when you hit it, I want you to imagine his face. Imagine giving him a good pummelling and taking all your anger out on him, where it belongs, except now you’re doing it in a healthy, controlled way. And regaining control in all areas of your life is a big thing to help you heal from this.’
She bites her lip, unsure. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. Try it.’
She lets out a cry as she lands the first heavy punch on the bag.
‘Good. Just lift your shoulders a little more and try again.’
She follows up with two punches. Left, right, in quick succession.
‘That’s great. I feel sorry for the bag.’ I laugh. ‘Keep going.’
Her eyes narrow with hatred and her lip curls up, distorting her face into a snarl as she puts all her effort into blow after blow. Months of frustration and grief flood out of her and into the punch bag.
After fifteen minutes, she leans forward, resting her gloves on her thighs and catching her breath.
‘You OK?’ I ask.
She lifts her head up, her hair glistening in the lights of the gym. She breathes deeply, and her face cracks into a huge grin. ‘This is great! I feel…’ She pauses for another breath. ‘I feel energized and exhilarated and…I don’t know…free.’
‘Do you want to stop? If you’re not used to it, your arms are going to hurt tomorrow.’
‘No.’ She straightens her spine and wipes the sweat from her forehead with the back of the glove. ‘I want to do a bit more.’
I hold the bag steady and she carries on, gloves smacking against the bag with a satisfying sound, every strike increasing in force as she gains confidence.
She finally drops to the mat on her back, wiped out. ‘Now, I can stop,’ she pants.
‘You did an amazing job. I’m going to do a few now before we leave. I think I need to get in some more practice in case you decide to punch me next time.’
She laughs and lies there, watching me pound into the bag.
Having her eyes on me is the best feeling in the world.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Grace
I sit up and stretch my arms, trying not to watch how his every punch is powerful and precise. With each movement, his T-shirt lifts slightly, revealing the hard lines of his abs. His arm muscles flex and bulge as he works. Those muscles could so some serious damage, but surprisingly, I’m still not afraid of him. Far from it. I want to know what it’s like to have those arms around me.
Comforting me.
Protecting me.
He throws a few kicks to it, landing high on the bag. It swings under the force, and he steadies it before going again, pummelling it with a series of punches, jabs, and kicks. Hard and fast strikes.
I glance around the gym and notice other women checking him out. Apart from being incredibly good-looking, he has something else. A quiet confidence in the way he moves that’s neither arrogant nor cocky. No wonder women look at him with hunger. In another lifetime, maybe I would, too.
Why are you even thinking about him like that? He’s just a friend you barely know.
I shake my head to clear my thoughts, trying to ignore the physical reaction I’m having to him that has come from nowhere.
But he only cares about helping me because it’s his job. It’s what he does. And I can never see myself in a relationship again.
Ever.
It’s just too painful.
So what’s wrong with me? Why can’t I tear my eyes off him? Why am I experiencing such weird feelings around him?
‘I’m going to hit the showers.’ I get to my feet, wanting to escape the sight of him.
My arms feel sore and tight now. It’s the most exercise I’ve done in years, and I’ve got a feeling it will be even worse tomorrow. At the s
ame time, I feel stronger and elated, like I’m high on happy pills.
His fists stop flying, and he bounces from one foot to the other like a boxer. For someone so big, he’s light on his feet and agile. I guess that’s from all his MMA training.
‘OK. I’ll be another few minutes, then I’ll do the same.’ He stops bouncing and with the back of his gloves wipes away the hair stuck to his sweaty forehead. ‘Do you want to get something to eat after?’
I hesitate for a moment. ‘OK, but I don’t want to go into town.’ I don’t want even the slightest chance of seeing Theo anywhere.
He nods knowingly. ‘If you like, we can walk along the river. Bring a picnic and sit on the banks for a while.’
‘Sounds good, but let me bring the food. You’ve been making me lunch all week.’
He gives me a warm smile and shrugs. ‘OK, if you insist.’
‘I’ll stop at the supermarket on the way back. Do you want to meet at my flat in about an hour and a half?’
‘Great. I’ll see you then.’ His eyes linger on mine for a few seconds before he turns back to the punch bag.
I take a long, hot shower and dress in black leggings and a baggy sweatshirt before blasting my hair with a hairdryer attached to the wall. With all the sweat, my make up has still held firm. Thank God for waterproof mascara. A miraculous invention. It’s sweat-proof, even if it’s not always tear-proof. I reapply lipstick then head off to the supermarket.
The car park is packed, and the high I’m on since the gym deflates as I sit in the car and scan faces in the crowd. I doubt if he’s going to be here, but you never know, do you? That’s the trouble with life; you just never know what horror’s waiting for you round the next corner.
My heart rate rises. My palms sweat. My breath’s the wrong side of easy. Maybe it’s too soon to do this. What if he is here? What if he corners me somewhere? Even the sight of him would send me over the edge.
I start the engine, drive back to the little shop at the corner of my road, and park outside. I want to do something nice for lunch, but the choice isn’t nearly as good as the supermarket’s deli. I manage to find some fresh French bread, olives, salami, cheese, and vine ripened tomatoes. That will have to do. I pick up some other supplies for me while I’m there. I must make more of an effort to eat properly again.
By the time I’ve got the food prepared and wrapped things in foil, I have half an hour before he’s due. I pick up my journal and start writing.
Positive thought of the day: I am only a victim as long as I blame myself and remain ashamed.
Today, I went to the gym. Ben told me to try and get rid of anger in healthy ways, so the punch bag got it big time! It gave me a rich sense of exhilaration as I pretended I was hitting Theo, punching the shit out of him, screaming in my head at him and calling him every name I could think of. Every smack against the leather bag felt like the emotional pain locked deep inside was pouring out, turning into pleasure—the pleasure of his pain with every strike.
It’s amazing how the anger sits under the surface most of the time, coming out when you least expect it. You don’t know how great it felt to finally let go of that. It’s been inside me for too long, and now I’ve found an outlet, it’s liberating. It was far more constructive in easing the frustration inside than spending my time just trying to forget. It gave me a sense of empowerment, a feeling of being in control for the first time in what feels like forever.
I’ve only been talking to Ben about things for a little while, but already I feel different—freer, lighter, somehow. It’s as if he’s walking through this nightmare with me, holding my hand and sharing my pain. I don’t know if this will help, but I’m desperate. I’ve been desperate for a long time, and I think talking might be the thing that saves my life.
I know I’ve got a long way to go, and change doesn’t happen overnight, but this is the start, and it’s so good to be here. I’m finally facing up to the demons I’ve tried to bury deep inside me, and I have to be honest with myself now. Hiding the truth isn’t an option anymore. So I’m going to write down in here what happened, the whole story, and every little step I take in the healing process…
My words and feelings spill out onto the pages, all the frustration and pain that I’ve been too afraid to face. It’s therapeutic to get them out, like I’ve been blindfolded for a year and now I can finally see.
Today is a good day.
By the time I check my watch, I’ve already been writing for twenty-five minutes. I have five minutes left before he arrives, but I don’t want to have a man in my flat alone with me, so I pick up the carrier bag with food and drinks, lock the door, and wait for him just inside the entrance to the car park. On the path outside, couples walk past, hand in hand. Families laden with shopping bags. People going about their normal lives.
I’m staring at a mum with her toddler when Ben suddenly rounds the corner of the building into the car park. If he’s surprised to find me waiting outside, he doesn’t say anything.
‘You OK?’ He smiles.
‘Yep.’
‘Good. Arms hurting yet?’
I grin. ‘Yes, but in a good way.’
We walk away from the shop towards the path along the River Cam that runs through Cambridge. It’s busy but not too busy. The sun’s shining for once, and everyone’s making the most of the spring weather that probably won’t last long. Tomorrow it will be back to grey clouds and drizzle. It’s strange to have the sun on my face. Strange but good. And it hits me just how much time I spend at work or cooped up in my flat, only venturing out for essentials. Locked inside my home with the emptiness inside my heart, and the engulfing ache of loneliness squeezing me until I can’t breathe. It’s not like a home. It’s a prison cell.
We chat about nothing important—the weather, music we like, the last film we saw. It’s easy. Safe.
We find a bench to sit at that’s set a way back from the river but with a beautiful view.
‘Are you hungry?’ I peer into the bag.
‘Starving,’ he says.
‘Cheese and olive or salami and tomato?’ I pull out two sticks of filled French bread and wiggle them in my hands.
‘I’m easy. I don’t mind.’
I hand his over and carefully unwrap mine on my lap. We eat in silence, watching people punting on the calm expanse of water and ducks swimming along looking for food. It’s quiet. Peaceful.
‘What about your parents? Are they still in London?’ I glance at him.
He stiffens beside me. He chews the last of his baguette for a few minutes. Swallows slowly. ‘Yes, they’re still in London, but they moved house after Mia died. They didn’t want to be surrounded by memories of her.’ His expression twists into something sad and defeated. ‘We haven’t spoken for years.’
‘Why not?’
‘Mia didn’t want me to tell them about the rape, so I didn’t. I made her a promise, and I couldn’t betray her, even when she was gone. She thought they’d think it was all her fault. She was ashamed about it all.’
As he speaks, he could be talking about me. I know about it all. The shame. The vile, dirty feeling. The guilt.
‘What you said to me about it not being my fault…’ I pause. ‘It’s not your fault, either.’
I reach my hand along the gap between us on the bench and leave it there, palm facing up to the sky, just as he did to me the first time I spoke. I’m offering what little comfort I can to him to convey that I understand. Feeling an overwhelming compassion for the pain he’s trying so hard to hide.
He looks down at it for a second before lacing his fingers through mine, and a subtle warm jolt passes through me.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ben
I don’t tell Grace what happened after Mia’s death. That was definitely my fault, and it’s the real reason my parents don’t speak to me anymore. They haven’t since the night it happened, and who can blame them?
Maybe Mia choosing to end her life wasn’t my fault,
but the guilt is there. Burned into my heart forever.
‘If I’d have done something different to help her, maybe she would’ve got through it eventually. Now I don’t know if keeping her secret was the right thing to do. If I’d told someone else, maybe she wouldn’t have done it.’
‘How could you know what to do, though? You were what, twenty?’
I shrug. How could I ever explain? It’s everything I didn’t do and everything I did do that’s such a fucking mess.
‘I should’ve persuaded her to talk to someone. A counsellor, a psychologist. Someone who’s trained to deal with it. I just thought…’ My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. ‘I don’t know what I thought. Maybe that she’d be able to work through it on her own. Eventually get over it without having to tell anyone so Mum and Dad would never find out. Because she was so adamant she wasn’t going to seek professional help.’
Grace grips my fingers tighter, and her tiny hand is warm in mine.
‘You can’t take all the responsibility of Mia’s death on yourself. In the end, she was the one who chose to do it.’
‘But she was suffering, and I just let her.’
‘You tried, Ben. You tried the best you could. You couldn’t do anything else.’
I sigh deeply.
‘If they didn’t know about the rape, why don’t they talk to you, then? Do they blame you for her death somehow?’ she asks.
I think before I speak, trying to work out the lie. ‘Maybe because I left.’
‘To study in Australia?’
‘Yes,’ I say, swallowing away the foul taste of yet another lie.
‘But it’s understandable that you needed to get away, too. They wanted to move house to escape her memories, and you wanted to move to another country to do the same.
Except it’s not the same.
It’s not the same at all, but I can’t tell her that, so I steer the conversation away from me. ‘Have you tried anything I suggested yet? Repeating positive affirmations and writing in the journal?’
