by Shelly Pratt
www.shellypratt.net
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Artwork Illustrations by
KINDLE EDITION
© Copyright 2014
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The right of Shelly Pratt to be identified as author of The Bars That Hold Us.
This work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
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Contents
#1
#2
#3
#4
#5
#6
#7
#8
#9
#10
#11
#12
#13
#14
#15
#16
#17
#18
#19
#20
#21
#22
#23
#24
#25
#26
#Epilogue
#Other titles & acknowledgements
#1
I wasn’t always this broken. I was alive with the prospect of a bright future—a future Daniel played a part in. All it took was a single second to tear all that away. The future, the love we felt for each other, my… fiancé… all dead.
Sometimes I feel that I’m so raw, drowning with sorrow, that I’ll never see the other side—the side where people keep telling me I’ll get to once the pain has passed. But I know better. It’s never going to end; because I won’t let it. If I make the choice to let him go, then all I’ll have are memories.
Even the memories torture me, though. How could they not. Such wonderful times we had, just gone. With each passing day, his face, his touch, his smell… it all just dissipates a little more; as though with each southerly breeze that blows through town, it takes a piece of Daniel with it.
He wouldn’t want me to be miserable, I know that. We signed up for this life. It’s in our blood. Well, it was in his. Not anymore. Each drop just filtered out, like a tap turning, emptying him of the very essence that kept him alive. Gone. Forever.
A tiny sob escapes my lips and I slap my hand over my mouth to cover the guttural sounds that worm their way past tight fingers. No one will hear me, but I know the noise to my own ears is enough to spark something more. More pain, more torture, more devastation.
Despite my best intentions to make it through another day, another night without completely succumbing to the heartache that grips me, it always ends the same. Tears. More tears. And even more tears.
There is no end to this suffering, so I just roll with it. Day after day, night after night. Every minute seems to roll into the next one so that I no longer know how long it’s been. A year? Perhaps. Maybe longer.
Would I medicate? I want to so badly, to make myself feel numb. Not numb with pain, but artificial bliss. Can anything make me happy? I doubt it. Besides, it goes against everything I stand for – everything we stood for. I’d drink, but I don’t want to drown him out. I want him with me, even if it is only in my mind. And for that, I need clarity, not some alcohol, drug-induced haze.
I roll over and glance the time on the clock. Still early. It’s to be expected while I continue to have these fitful, sleepless nights. I absently wonder if this nightmare will ever end, but I know it will never be so. He’s not coming back; not returning to our bed to make love to me or touch me in a way only he knows how. Daniel was so strong, so safe. Not safe enough.
His smell still lingers on his pillow. I’ve never washed it. The other sheets may occasionally see the inside of a washing machine, when I force myself to function, but never his pillowcase. Even after all this time, the dent where his head use to lie is still present. I touch it, remembering what it was like to have him sleep there. Damn annoying most of the time, but I’d give anything and everything I have just to hear him snore one more time; to have him breathe with life next to me.
I ignore the memories and turn on my side, tears trickling down my face towards my own pillow. I know I need to get a life, but I’m struggling to avoid the inertia of my sorrow. How can people say this gets better? It doesn’t.
After generations of cops in our family, it was only natural that I would follow in their footsteps. The day I joined the academy was one of the happiest days of my life. To serve and protect was in our blood, our DNA. It seemed fitting that I’d meet Daniel on the force. It destroys me that I wasn’t able to protect him. He gave his life for me and I can never make him take it back. I can never swap our destinies. Fate has already decided our paths; I’m just not willing to accept that this is the way things are now.
Giving up any chance of sleep, I decide to take a shower. The bathroom is just as empty as the rest of the house. The ghosts haunt here, too. I strip naked and ignore the gaunt woman in the mirror. I don’t need to look to see that her once shiny brown hair has become a brittle, matted mess. I don’t need to look to see the dark circles under her eyes, or the hollow cheeks. God knows I look like shit. I just don’t care anymore.
The water is hot; always so hot. I need it to caress and hold me, the absence of touch from another gripping me even in this tiny stall. Sometimes I wish my ability to care would just wash down the plughole and disappear forever. Other times I scream at myself for being so ridiculous, because how could I ever stop caring about the man I loved, dead or not.
Like every action, I soap my skin lacking complete awareness. It’s just motions. I know I have to do it, I just couldn’t care less whether it actually gets done or not. When I’m clean, I dress in clothes that are way too baggy, but have no desire to replace. That would mean shopping, and people, and talking. All things I’m incapable of right now. I want to stay in my depressive hole where I can’t infect anyone else with my mood, or have them try to cure me of mine.
The kitchen holds many memories, too. I try to ignore them as they swirl about, enticing me to remember snippets of our life and how it played out in this room. I don’t want to remember some things—they hurt too much. Making love on the kitchen bench, kissing at the sink, him pressed up against me as I cook over the stove. These memories make my hunger for food non-existent.
It doesn’t matter anyway. There is no food to speak of; just a couple of stale boxes of cereal and wilted fruit and veg in the fridge crisper. I don’t even know how they ended up here. My dad, perhaps? He worries, as do they all. But they can’t save me anymore than I can save myself. They say time will heal, although I already know as it slips away that this is not the answer either.
I settle for tea, brewed dark and strong with lots of milk. Thank god for long-life, huh? I can just imagine if it were the fresh variety. It would soon go off. The plop-plop of it would drop into my tea, destroying my beverage had I used it after it’d expired and curdled.
The phone rings, as it often does. It’s only five am, but family reject themselves from such politeness when they think they’re doing what’s best for me. I ignore the incessant shrill, leaving the machine to answer politely instead. This in itself is a stab in the heart, but one I can’t refuse, because I love to hear his voice, no matter how much it kills me to do so.
�
��Hey, you’ve reached Daniel and Mercy. We’re too busy kissing the hell out of each other, so why don’t you leave us a message and we might get back to you sometime this week.’
The machine beeps rudely, letting the caller know they can now leave their message. It’s intrusive to the rich tones of Daniel’s voice, making me recoil as though physically struck.
‘Mercy, honey, pick up will you? I need to talk to you. Come on, you can’t avoid me forever, you know. Right, I’m coming over after breakfast. You better answer that damn door, girl, or I’m going to bust it wide open.’
My dad hangs up, leaving me feeling like a petulant child, and me not caring in the least. So he’s mad at me. I’ve got bigger issues to deal with. Like my fiancé’s death. I don’t need him breathing down my neck telling me it’s time to move on, or that the family needs me. Or that the force needs me. I know I’ve used up all my long service leave, but that means nothing to me. Insurance policies and savings are keeping me afloat for now.
The thought of stepping foot outside scares me. It scares me because people don’t accept people walking around in tears all the time. It’s not… normal. I know if I’m put in a position where I need to talk and communicate with others then the tears will have to stop. The visible pain would have to stop. My feeling anything at all would have to stop. It would mean that I’ve relinquished my grief for Daniel, and I’m just not ready for that.
The burden of having family right now makes me want to move far away where they can’t touch me—where they can’t penetrate the cocoon I’ve created in this house. I would leave, except this is where I feel Daniel the most. I can’t give that up. I won’t give that up. So I put up with these visits from family, just so I can spend my time with a ghost I will never see.
I take my tea to the front room, the stale air moving reluctantly around me. It’s cold out, winter already leaving a little frost on the ground. I know when my dad walks up I will hear the crunch-crunch of the thin ice underneath his work boots. The sun will melt it quickly enough. I wish I could say the same for my frozen heart, petrified since Daniel stopped living.
Like the neighborhood busybody, I peek out of the front curtains. It’s a distraction from the outside world, needed to dry my eyes before my dad gets here. He won’t be happy to see the state I’m in, yet I’m powerless to stop it. Food tastes like cardboard and looking pretty seems superfluous. He will just need to accept me the way I am now; that perhaps his little girl is gone for good.
The woman I am now doesn’t crave things normal people do. Normal people partake in having desires and dreams. Not me. My dreams were blown to bits. There was no way he was going to survive that, but I don’t think I did either despite the fact that I’m the one who is still breathing. Barely.
A familiar engine turns the corner down the road. I know it’s him. I let the curtains fall closed, unable to watch his stern approach. He’s a practical man, unable to feel the depths of my suffering. He sees my grief as a logical emotion not overcome fast enough. He wants to fix me, like everyone else. But like everyone else, he will be just as unsuccessful. I’m already steeling my heart against his pleas. I won’t let go. I won’t move on. I just… can’t.
I know he’s there, but the knock still startles me. He knows I’m here, so there’s no denying him entry. As the door whooshes open and the outside world collides with mine, I’m hit by the force of cool air and old spice aftershave.
‘Dad.’
‘Hey, Mercy. So, you’re not taking my calls now, huh?’
‘I was in the shower,’ I say pointedly, motioning towards my still-wet hair.
He grunts, not caring for my excuses. He knows me better than that. His arms are laden with grocery bags. Food which I know will end up in the waste like the offerings before it. Dad knows it too, but my mom will continue to push him to reach me in some way.
I follow him into the kitchen, watching silently as he methodically throws out the wasted food taking up residence in my fridge, replacing it with the goods intended to energize life back into me. When he’s finished, he sits on the bar stool watching me intently, waiting for me to say something. Anything.
‘Would you like coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’
From a little jar on the bench, I remove a coffee pod and place it in the machine Daniel bought for us last Christmas. Every single thing reminds me of him. Sometimes it gets so exhausting trying to hide from him, yet I don’t want to. I welcome whatever scraps I can get, whether that is a memory or a scent.
The machine goes to work, releasing a heady aroma of freshly brewed coffee. When I’ve stirred in the obligatory milk and two sugars, I stand back in the corner, allowing my dad to drink his beverage without being able to touch me with his concern.
He’s a big bear of a man; very tall, and wide shoulders that carry the weight of the world. When I was growing up, I used to get lost in his embrace, certain he could fix anything if I needed him too. His dependable, steel-grey eyes would always tell me so. They don’t tell me that anymore. They’re watery, hollow and vacant—unsure. Sometimes when he visits I think I’m looking into my own reflection, because that’s how I feel. Hollow.
Dad’s moustache twitches, a sure sign there are things on his mind. I decide to steer his conversation away from my welfare before I bite anger at his good intentions and well-meaning words.
‘How’s Mom?’ He contemplates this, clearly not what he had in mind.
‘She’s well, although she’d like to see you more.’
‘She knows where I live.’
‘As do you, her.’
‘I just—’
‘You’ve got to start living again, Mercy. Daniel wouldn’t want this for you.’
‘Don’t say his name, Dad, please.’
‘You need to talk about this with someone; get some grief counseling.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re far from it. I don’t mean to be the one to tell you some hard truths, love, but you look like death warmed up.’
I gasp, unable to hide from his blunt words. He can see that the mention of death is just another taunt at the man I’ve already lost. I know he’s trying to make me see that this isn’t me, the old me, but none of it matters any more. It’s like out of the two of us, he’s the only one who doesn’t see that the girl he knew and loved is never coming back. She’s gone, because a piece of me died that day as well.
‘Look, love, I didn’t mean—’
‘I look like shit. I know, Dad.’
‘You need something to take your mind of things.’
‘I’m happy the way I am.’
‘Happy? You call this happy?’ His arms sweep wildly, making note of the home that feels like a prison. There’s no life here, and he can see it.
‘It’s all I’m capable of right now.’
‘Look. I’ve had this job offer come my way and—’
‘Dad! I’m not going back, despite what you think.’
‘Just give me a minute to explain. There’s a position come up over at Silverwater. The warden is a colleague of mine and is willing to give it to you, no questions asked.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that.’
‘Thanks, Dad, but no thanks. I’m not ready to deal with people again so soon.’
‘It’s been a year, Mercy! You’ve got to move on!’
‘Please, I just need to be left alone,’ I plead, needing him to see this my way. He swallows the rest of his coffee and places his cup in the sink. Reaching into the pocket of his uniform he pulls out a business card and drops it on the counter. He extends his arms out towards me, as though desperate to hug all of my troubles away.
I let him embrace me, knowing it is comfort for him, not me.
‘Just think about the offer okay, love?’
‘I—’
‘Don’t answer now,’ he says, releasing me. ‘Just think about it. In the meantime, get some food into you. You’re all skin and bones these da
ys. Some fresh air wouldn’t go astray either.’
I see dad out to the front door, knowing that he’s completely right, but hating that he is. He kisses the top of my head fondly before heading to the patrol car that’s waiting in my driveway. He’s a man who lives and breathes the job. I used to be the same until my very reason for breathing was snatched away from me. Now all I have are vague ideals of what my life should be. All I know is that the one person I want to share it with is never coming back and that, more than anything else, is the hardest thing to reconcile in my head.
#2
I always said I would do anything for family, but now that the realization of that sentiment has come true, I carry the burden of guilt in wishing I hadn’t been so hasty in my actions.
This place, it eats you alive. It slowly removes every single aspect of who you were and replaces it all with just a number. I’m just a number. No value to anyone. My number earns me no respect, no admiration, no nothing.
And time, fuck, time just seems to stand still. It’s bottomless, bountiful and ill-placed in surroundings that hold you with concrete walls and bars. It’s torture. Privacy? Yeah, that went out the window, too. There is not a single second of any given day that I don’t feel completely and utterly alone. The flip side is that I have over eight hundred inmates watching every move I make.
I was naïve enough to think that this place wouldn’t end up being my home. I was wrong. So dead wrong. I’m not built for places like this. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a killer when I have to be, obviously, that’s why I’m here, right? But it’s not ingrained in me like most of the inmates. I wasn’t born bad. I just made a wrong decision in the heat of the moment.
And that decision is going to cost me. Cost me my freedom, my love, my life and my will to give two shits about anything anymore.
My first reaction when entering Silverwater was to do whatever it took to survive. I know I’m not like the rest of them and, for some reason, they can seem to sniff it out a mile off. Most prisoners enter the Metropolitan Remand and Reception Centre knowing at least a handful of the inmates. Not me. Most join their segregated group, whether it’s a gang affiliation or race association. Not me.
