by Selena Kitt
She shifts in her seat so she’s facing me and gives me a big smile. It makes my heart swell to think maybe I’ve helped put it on her beautiful face.
‘I’ve got a positive thought of the day now,’ she says. ‘I repeat it to myself over and over, and it does actually seem to lift my mood.’
‘Good.’
‘And I’ve written a little in the journal. I’m trying to make sure I do it every day. It’s going to be a record of my journey. And I loved using the punch bag.’ Her eyes light up, and excitement flickers there. ‘So, what’s next? Because now I’ve started this, I just want to carry on with things.’
I laugh at the eagerness shining through. ‘What you’ve done so far is just to try and make you feel stronger so you can face the issues involved here. Maybe you should think about the specific fears and anxieties you have so you can work on tackling them.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The panic attacks are because of anxiety. Are they from flashbacks? Or when you see someone who looks like him, or something else? What can we work on to help you get through them?’
Her eyes mist up.
‘You don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to. We can just go as fast or slow as you want.’
She stares out over the river. A duck is ushering her ducklings onto the banks.
‘I want to talk about it. I want to get him out of my head.’ She shivers, even though it’s not cold. ‘I worry he’s going to come back and get me. I have nightmares about the rape. I…’ She trails off and stares at the ground. ‘I check the locks on my door obsessively and…’
I don’t prompt her to carry on. She can tell me in her own time.
We sit for a while in silence until she breaks it. ‘I sleep with a knife under my pillow, and—’ She stops abruptly.
I know there’s more, but she’s not willing to share it yet.
‘OK. That’s a start,’ I say. ‘All of those things are normal responses to what you’ve suffered.’
She shakes her head. ‘You’re saying I’m normal? How can checking the locks loads of times and sitting in front of the door with a knife in your hand be normal?’
‘It’s important to understand why you feel this way, and it is a normal response to the trauma you’ve been through. The things you’re talking about are because you don’t feel safe anymore. What we need to do is make you feel safe, so you can reduce the panic and anxiety. Have you been keeping up the deep breathing when you have a panic attack?’
‘Yes. And it has been helping.’
‘Good. How often do you check the locks?’
She shrugs. ‘It’s been a bit better lately, but if I’m feeling really panicky or stressed, I’ve checked them up to about forty times.’
‘So, rationally, you know that checking them once is good enough?’
‘Of course I know that!’ she cries. ‘I’m not an idiot!’
I ignore her outburst and carry on. ‘No, you’re not, far from it. And you’re aware you do it, which is the first step. You have an irrational need to check the locks more often, even though you know they’re already locked, so what would help you with that? What would make you feel safer?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says, sounding like a stubborn child.
‘How about if when you check the locks the first time, you write it down on a pad by the door. That way, you know you’ve done it properly, and if you feel the need to do it again, you can check the pad and reassure yourself.’
‘How will that help?’
‘I’m not saying it will, but at least you can try it. Or instead of writing it in the pad, send me a text to say they’re locked. And if you feel the need to check them again, text me, and I can reassure you they’re definitely locked.’
‘I prefer that option.’
‘OK, so let’s do that. And if you feel yourself getting anxious about it, try doing the deep breathing exercises and grounding yourself.’
‘All right, I’ll try it. I don’t want to be afraid all the time. It’s exhausting.’ She bites her lip.
I want to pull her towards me. I want to take hold of her hand again, but I can’t push her.
‘What if I told you that FEAR was just an acronym for Face Everything and Rise? Would that make you think about it differently?’
‘Face everything and rise,’ she repeats to herself, letting the meaning sink in. ‘Yes. I think that might help.’
‘Rape isn’t just a crime against a person’s body. It’s a crime against their memory, too. With the flashbacks, maybe you should try to look at them a different way. They’re just a memory, so they’re not happening right now. Don’t see them as something that’s trying to hurt you. Instead, they’re asking you to heal them.’
She doesn’t look at me, but I sense she’s digesting that.
‘And you can phone me any time, as well. You know that, right?’
She nods. ‘Thanks.’
‘You don’t have to thank me, Grace.’ I pause because I don’t know whether to give her more things to think about today. But she seems keen to try to deal with this, so I go ahead anyway. ‘There’s something else I want you to try, too. Instead of concentrating on negative things in your life, try to name one thing every day you’re grateful for. Write it in your journal, if you like.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Grace
We walk back along the river to my flat in the fading light of the day. He waits at the bottom of the steps as I unlock my door. ‘Have a good evening.’
‘You, too.’
‘Text me when they’re locked, OK?’
‘I will.’
‘I’ll see you at work tomorrow.’ He turns and walks through the car park, and I immediately know what I’m grateful for today.
Ben.
I close the door and check the locks just once. Then I take a few steps down the hallway, but the pull to check them again is strong.
I turn and look at the locks. I know they’re locked. I’ve just done them.
They’re locked. Stop it! Don’t go back.
I breathe deeply, concentrating on them so hard my eyes water.
Once more. Maybe just check them once more.
Before I can move again, my phone beeps with a text, drawing my attention away from the door. I grab it out of my handbag and take a look. It’s a message from Ben.
‘Are they locked?’ it says.
I laugh in spite of myself and text him back. ‘Yes.’
‘Text me if you want to check them again.’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Cheeky!’
I don’t reply. A minute later, he texts again.
‘I had a nice day.’
‘Me, too.’
I find myself grinning and humming as I go into the kitchen to make an omelette for dinner. I chop onions and peppers and grate the cheese, my gaze catching the Post-it notes I’ve put on the cupboard doors: ‘You are a survivor’, You are strong’, ‘You can do this’, ‘You’re a good person’, ‘It’s not your fault’.
‘I am strong,’ I say aloud, and the smile that creeps up my mouth makes me tingle with happiness.
Yes, I actually feel happy for a minute. It’s such an unfamiliar feeling that I freeze for a second, my knife pressed against the chopping board. I try to work out what’s different, what’s changed.
Whatever it is, I want more of this.
After I’ve eaten, I curl up on the sofa and write in my journal for a while, scribbling away furiously as the anger and crushing pain, the hurt and sadness at what happened to me, pours onto the pages. Everything that’s been consuming me, suffocating me. Everything I’ve tried to banish to a place I’ll never find it.
As I put everything down on paper, I look towards the doorway. The urge to check the locks again is strong, but I think, no. I’m not sitting in front of that door for one more night with a knife in my hand. I’m through with that. It’s not healthy, and it’s not going to change anything.
&nb
sp; Instead, I reach for my phone and text Ben. ‘I want to check the locks!’
I bite my lip as I wait for a reply.
‘They’re already locked. Trust me. You’re safe.’
I nod, even though he can’t see me. I rest the phone under my chin, wondering what it is about him that takes the powerlessness away and actually makes me feel likes he’s my safety zone.
My lifeline.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ben
The weeks in the coffee shop pass quickly, but I appreciate every second I spend with her. I commit every detail to memory because I know how fragile life is. How one minute everything is perfectly normal, and the next, it’s ripped apart, wrecked. I don’t want to forget this. Don’t want to lose it. My interview is next week, and I can’t even think about what happens when I stop working here. Will she still want to see me?
For the first time in years, I feel alive, and it’s because of Grace. She makes me forget the bad things in my life. The bad in me. She’s the last thing I see at night before I close my eyes and the first thing I see in my head when I wake up. I can’t stop thinking about how beautiful she is. On the inside and out. The kind of beauty that makes my stomach twist into knots. Makes my heart skip a beat when I see her. Her voice makes my skin tingle. Even her smile does strange things to me. Everything about her permeates my heart, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since the first time I saw her.
I can already see she’s happier in the way she walks. The way her shoulders are more relaxed. Her skin isn’t as pale, and her curves have filled out a little. I don’t press her to talk or work through things. She has to go through her journey in her own time. I’m here if she wants to talk about it, and I think she knows that. Her texts about the locks are getting less and less frequent now, which is fantastic. I’m really happy that it seems to be helping, and I wonder if they’ll stop altogether soon. But the selfish part of me loves hearing from her whenever I’m not with her, even if most of the time we’re texting about locks.
It’s Friday night on the fourth week I’ve worked there, and I’m making hot chocolate for us after the last customer leaves. She changes the open sign to closed and locks the door. The latch clicks, but I don’t look up and acknowledge it. This is a big thing for her. It means she feels safe being alone with me. With my head down, I smile to myself.
She sits in her usual seat, watching me work. ‘Actually, do you want something stronger than hot chocolate? I feel like a glass of wine.’
I’m pouring the milk into mugs and my hand hovers mid-air. I haven’t drunk alcohol since that night, but if it means staying with her longer, I’m not going to say no.
I swing around to face her. ‘That sounds good. In fact, I was going to suggest that you start to celebrate the advances you’re making.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I can tell you’re starting to feel more positive and more able to cope with things. The texts about the locks are almost non-existent now. You should feel proud of yourself for how far you’ve come already. And you should celebrate advances when they happen. Of course, you don’t have to celebrate with a bottle of wine. I’m not encouraging you to be a raging alcoholic. It can be anything you like: eat a bar of chocolate, get a manicure, just something that makes you feel good. And you should make a point of doing something caring for yourself every day to feel special and honour yourself, like have a nice relaxing bubble bath. If you give yourself permission to self-indulge, it will boost your confidence and self-esteem.’
‘It’s been ages since I’ve done anything caring for myself,’ she says wistfully, thinking about it. ‘Yes, you’re right. But I don’t have anything chocolatey left.’ She nods towards the empty food counter. ‘And I don’t have a manicurist hiding away in the office, but I do have some wine in the flat.’ She jumps up and walks to the door. Unlocks it.
As she steps out into the street, she suddenly freezes, eyes wide. Her whole body trembles, and she gasps for breath.
In a few strides, I’m out the door, catching her just as her knees buckle. I pick up her quaking body in my arms and carry her back through the door, closing it shut with my foot. I sit her on a chair with her back to the door and kneel in front of her, taking her hands in mine.
‘Breathe, Grace. Look at me.’
It’s the worst attack I’ve seen so far. Tears stream down her face. She’s panting so hard I think she’s going to pass out. Her face is bordering on a shade of white. She shakes uncontrollably.
‘Look at me, Grace.’ I hold her hands firmly as she stares in the distance with a glazed look in her eyes.
‘Grace!’ I cup her chin and turn her face to me. ‘Look at me. Breathe.’ I inhale an exaggerated breath for her benefit. Exhale it again.
Finally, it seems to register with her, and she sucks in a breath.
‘That’s it, keep going.’ I keep my gaze locked onto hers as my heart aches for her. ‘You’re doing great.’
We breathe with each other for what seems like an eternity but is probably ten minutes. Her shaking subsides into small spasms, and the tears stop. My knees hurt where they’re bent on the hard floor, but I’m not moving. Not until I know she’s OK.
‘Did you have a flashback?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. ‘I…I saw him. Walking down the street. He was holding hands with a girl.’ Her breath catches in her throat. ‘He was walking along, smiling. Fucking smiling!’ Her voice gets louder. ‘Can you believe it? Like he hasn’t got a bloody care in the world, but I’m left like this. He’s free, and I have a life sentence!’
‘That’s good,’ I say, and she looks at me as if I’ve just sprouted two heads.
‘Good?’ she shouts. ‘How is that fucking good?’
‘Because you’re getting angry about it. Instead of keeping it all tucked inside, you’re letting it out. Don’t blame yourself. Put the blame where it belongs, and direct that anger to him.’
‘I want to punch him.’ Her eyes narrow. ‘I want to do to him what I do with the punch bag. I want him to know what it feels like to be hurt.’
I know how she feels. I want to do that, too. Except I know from experience it doesn’t help. It makes things worse than you can ever imagine.
‘You don’t need to punch him to get even,’ I say. ‘There’s another way you can change the power, so you have control over him instead of him having control over your thoughts and feelings.’
‘And how do I do that?’ she sneers, not believing me.
I stand up, my knees making a cracking sound. I’m still holding her hands, and she lets me. ‘It’s harder to be scared of things if we can laugh about them.’
‘Laugh?’ Her eyes widen with a flash of anger. ‘How can I possibly laugh about what happened?’
‘You can use your imagination to try a visualization exercise.’ I don’t know if I’m saying this right, and I don’t want to make things worse for her. ‘Do you trust me?’
She hesitates, looking unsure, before finally nodding.
‘It’s called laughter therapy. Laughter releases feel-good endorphins, much like exercise, and the human body doesn’t know the difference between fake laughter and real laughter. It’s nature’s anti-depressant, but without the side effects.’
‘OK,’ she says slowly, unconvinced.
‘Do you want to try it?’
‘Here?’
‘That’s up to you.’
She takes a while to answer. ‘OK.’
‘It might help if you close your eyes.’
She glances around again.
‘We don’t have to do this. We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with,’ I try to reassure her.
‘No, I want to. I’m not letting him do this to me anymore.’ She sits back in the chair, closing her eyes.
‘Imagine him dressed in women’s clothes, or make up a joke about him in your head. Call him names. Poke fun at the traits he had. Anything that ridicules him and gives you
the power.’
Her eyelids clench together tight, and her forehead creases in a vicious frown. It takes a few minutes before her mouth curves into a smile, and I hope I’m doing the right thing.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Grace
It sounds a crazy thing to do, but is it any crazier than sitting in front of my door every night with a knife in my hand? Is it crazier than freaking out when I see him or someone who looks like him?
Is it crazier than letting him win?
I listen to Ben’s soothing voice and imagine Theo dressed in women’s clothes, walking through the high street wearing a red wig, a pink dress, and blue stilettos. He can’t walk in the heels, and people are pointing at him and laughing. It’s funny because his outfit is so clashing that everyone notices him, and he can’t escape. I’m walking behind him, calling him names. The crowd claps me on, jeering at him. He falls over in the middle of the street in front of everyone, terrified, embarrassed, and ashamed.
A laugh slips out of my mouth before I even know it’s escaped.
Then suddenly I’m getting bigger and bigger, more powerful, turning into a giant, and he’s shrinking and looking more terrified with every second. A taxi comes along, and I kick him into it and slam the door. The last thing I do is give the driver a one-way fare to China.
When I open my eyes, Ben’s got a big smile on his face. ‘Did that help?’
I smile back. I can’t help myself. I look down at his fingers, still entwined in mine. ‘It really helped. How can I be scared of a cross-dressing man in a clashing outfit who’s on his way to China?’
‘You’ve got a great laugh, you know,’ he says. ‘I’d love to hear it more often.’
‘Yeah, well, I haven’t had much to laugh about lately.’
‘You will.’ He presses my palms together and holds his hands on the outside of them. ‘Do you feel OK now?’
