You'll Be Sorry

by Emmy Ellis

  A staggering thought slapped her.

  What if she couldn’t get out?

  I’ll smash a damn window if I have to.

  Still determined, the human instinct for survival immense, she battled on. In the hallway, the smoke not so thick, she made out the two glass panes in the door. A shape loomed on the other side, ghostly, dark, and it gyrated as though an ethereal being danced. Her vision wavered, sight unclear from her tears, and the shape writhed again, joined by another and another still.

  The door flew open, and fresh, crisp night air smacked her in the face. She gulped it into raw lungs, its journey harsh on her dry throat, and squeezed her eyes closed. The house alarm blared, adding to the torment raging inside her mind.

  A few more steps. A few more steps and you’re free.

  She jumped, all her fight ironically gone now liberty stood moments away, and opened her eyes.

  Mark stood on the threshold. She let herself fall forward, allowing unconsciousness to claim her.

  Epilogue

  Gradley’s lights sparkled in the darkness, a carpet of intermittent twinkles and glows on a black background. The horizon, dark-blue bleeding into the pitch above, appeared as a never-ending streak. Kerry stared through her window in Gradley’s tallest building. She turned to her right and took in the smaller, less vibrant city lights, only a few miles away, yet they may as well be on another planet. She hadn’t gone back there since…since that night more than two years ago. Hadn’t wanted to breach the city limits and be reminded of her time there under Dan’s control. Gradley offered her security, symbolised her freedom to live a good, beautiful life.

  Her therapist had taught her exercises to either banish the recurring images of her past from her mind or to sift through them without panicking. Most times she coped well and managed to sit for an hour or more lost in thought, digesting what had gone before. She wasn’t stupid; her past would never be fully erased, and she’d worked through the events, the reasons, the explanations, until the memories didn’t hurt so much.

  She smiled and gave Gradley her full attention. Its inhabitants, going about their evening business, unaware she stared down on them, gave her a sense of peace, of control. Having it removed for so long, she needed to employ it now—on her terms.

  Kerry moved from the window and surveyed her living room. White walls, white, marble-like floor, white leather sofas, the only splash of colour Mark’s rose canvas hanging above the fireplace. The space represented purity, a fresh start, and the canvas? It was a part of Mark in her home, something he had given her, something she looked at from time to time. Something that reminded her never to forget the thorns of life. To never, ever trust anyone to that degree again.

  She’d bought flat a few months after Dan’s death, never doubting her choice to accept the life insurance payment. He owed her that much, and more, and the cash had gone some way to appeasing her troubled soul back then. Another key to her freedom, the money had given her a place to live, to heal, to come to terms with what had happened, how it had happened, and for her to learn to love herself again.

  She wasn’t sure if she did.

  She sank onto a sofa and curled her legs beneath her, adjusting her white satin nightgown to cover her feet. A fake fireplace dominated the wall opposite, its TV-like screen a black square. She leant forward and picked up the remote control from the ivory-coloured coffee table and clicked the fire on. Flames danced, and she forced herself to look at them, to accept that fire didn’t usually come into a person’s world twice in one lifetime. Not like that…not like it had when…

  Safe. I am safe. It can’t hurt me.

  Eyes closed, she relaxed her head against the sofa and took herself back to the basement, to the flames, the panic and uncertainty. The fear. It encompassed her as it always did when she did this, but this time, she compelled herself to watch as an outsider, as though she hadn’t participated in the ghastly scene playing out behind her eyelids. She stared at the burning kindling, at the smoke rising, and at herself, bound as she’d been, struggling to unlock that door. A surge of pride washed through her. Yes, she’d been brave. She’d suffered and got through. Got out.

  She had won. Nearly.

  Dan’s image, facedown in that box, haunted her dreams. After her collapse, Mark had called an ambulance, and she’d come to in hospital, her throat so sore, the pains in her chest harsh each time she took a breath. Mark had sat by her bed and leant forward, clutched her hand.

  She’d asked, “Is he…?”

  Mark had nodded, said, “The hedge cutters. Through his eye and into his brain.”

  She’d closed her eyes to prevent Mark seeing what they’d surely reflected, to stop him thinking her a wicked, evil person for being relieved that her husband had died. Because of her. She’d spotted those blades. Had made sure he’d fallen onto them.

  “A killer,” she murmured now. “And I don’t give a damn.”

  And that one thing lingered, prevented her from going forward. How could she, a good, kind person, not care about what she’d done? Mark had told her it was only natural she should feel this way. After years of abuse, a person switched off, all warm emotions for the abuser frozen.

  Stone cold, like him.

  She inhaled through her nose, filling her lungs, and laced her fingers together. Resting them in her lap, she squeezed them rhythmically, whispering the chant her therapist had taught her.

  “I shall not feel guilt for not feeling guilt. I shall not feel guilt for not feeling guilt…” Kerry opened her eyes and stared at the fire. After years of praying for sunshine, why now, when it stood within her reach, did she deny herself the rays? Why did she keep thinking of the past instead of moving on?

  She sniffed and stood, walked out of the room and down a hallway to the bathroom. With warm water in the sink, she splashed her face then dabbed it dry with a soft towel. Kerry stared at herself, looked into her eyes, and said, “I killed a man, and I am not sorry.”

  Freedom rose from her toes, infused her body, and life’s last burden lifted from her shoulders. She smiled—her first genuine smile in over two years—and touched her reflection.

  “I do love you. I accept you for who you are.” That was what her therapist had wanted her to say—and mean it. She nodded. “I’m free,” she whispered. “I’m free.”