by TT Kove
They’d been the only thing keeping me alive.
Andrew had nearly killed me.
Four days in a coma.
That was serious. He’d never done that to me before, so that was certainly a first.
I guess there’s a first time for anything. Oh so cliché, but oh so true.
My fingers slid around a black handle. The silver blade held me transfixed. I pulled up my sleeve. Pressed the blade against the scars.
I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t. I have to be my best tomorrow. If not for me, then for Damian. I can’t be a mess, I can’t.
But I was a mess, and the only way I knew to calm myself was this.
I cut.
‘Josh?’
The knife cluttered to the ground, dripping blood onto Claire’s clean floors. I flattened myself against the wall, my mind going caught! caught! caught!.
‘Josh?’
The panic subsided, just so, and I realised I wasn’t actually in any kind of danger. In danger of utter humiliation, yes, but nothing else.
‘Matilda?’ I glanced up at her.
She stared back down at me. She was only in a pair of really short shorts, with a shirt that must be triple her size on over it. Her arms were wrapped around her waist, her hair hung loosely down her back and over her shoulders. Her face was void of any traces of make-up. There were, however, traces of tears.
Her gaze moved from me to the knife. After a few seconds, her focus was solely on my arms. My bared arms. Bared, scarred and bleeding.
‘Is this where it happened?’
What?
‘What?’
What’d happened here?
Bleeding, sure. Lots of it.
‘Your step-dad—I mean, well…’ She moved her weight from one foot to the other. ‘Was it the kitchen that he—where he got you? They don’t really speak in front of me, but I heard them mention there were blood in here.’
Andrew.
In this house. Grabbing me, in front of the veranda door. And then… then he’d hit my head against the kitchen table. The kitchen table that was right there.
I stared at it, at the edge of it where my head must’ve made quite an impact. Was there blood on it still? I’d been bleeding, hadn’t I?
Who’d had to clean that up?
My chest constricted painfully.
‘I’m sorry.’ Matilda crouched down next to me. I hadn’t even noticed her moving. ‘I shouldn’t have brought that up. I’m sorry.’
It was ridiculous to feel panicked and terrified. Andrew had hounded me for ten years, gone away, and he’d come back for an encore… but now he was gone again. They’d keep him gone now. He wouldn’t hurt me again.
They said so last time too, yet he still had.
But not now. Now he wouldn’t. Now he’d rot in jail. He’d murdered someone. One person. He’d tried for two. Or tried for one, really, and ended up with someone else. Certainly that couldn’t be ruled an accident?
‘I’m so sorry.’ A lump formed in my throat, making my voice choked. ‘I never should’ve come here to stay with you.’
‘I’m blaming him, Josh, not you. That sick fucker—’ I could tell she wanted to continue cursing him, but she couldn’t actually come up with anything else. She was raised properly, she was. Cursing wasn’t something I’d ever heard her do.
Silence fell.
I stared at the table.
Matilda stared at the floor.
‘I don’t know all that’s happened to you, but from what I’ve gathered from pieces here and there, it wasn’t good. From what I’ve seen now, from the wreckage he left here, I know it must’ve been horrible.’ She drew her knees tight to her chest and draped the shirt over them. ‘How do you deal with it? With everything he did to you, and for so long… how do you manage to live a normal life? How do you deal? Because I don’t know how to go on from this.’ She sounded so heartbroken, so lost, so desperate.
‘This is how I deal.’ I nudged the knife with my foot. ‘It’s not recommended. But it kept me alive. I’ll leave it up for discussion whether that’s a good thing or not.’
She blinked, taking my words in, then her expression hardened.
‘Of course it’s a good thing if the alternative is you ending up dead! No one deserves to die, especially not at the hands of someone else. And yes, you do it to yourself, but if you hadn’t you say you’d be dead… that means he would’ve killed you, if you hadn’t had that outlet.’ She motioned to the knife. ‘And that’s just—it’s not right. It is a good thing that you’re here.’
‘If I hadn’t been here your dad—’
‘Dad loved you.’ She cut me off effectively. ‘You were family to him. You are to us. You’re with Damian. Mum and Dad never thought he’d ever find anyone, and then he shows up with you… And he’s happy.’
Now the lump was back because her words moved me. ‘They told you this?’
‘No. But they don’t always realise I’m close enough to hear when they’re talking. Sometimes they like to talk over my head, like I’m still a little girl who can’t understand what the grown-ups are talking about.’ She rested her head back against the wall. ‘Didn’t. Liked. I hate it, having to talk about Dad in past tense. It’s so… so bloody final.’
It was.
‘Yeah.’
‘Cutting’s the only thing that got you through?’
It seemed she wasn’t done with the topic.
‘No. I wrote journals. Lots of them. All the time.’
‘Did you stop writing them?’
‘No… Or… yeah. It’s been awhile.’ I’d never meant to stop, but there had been big lapses in time, and eventually I’d just never got back to it. ‘I miss it. But it doesn’t help. What’s the point of writing things in a book that only I’m going to see? I already know how I feel. I don’t need more reminders of it.’
The blog helped more but I didn’t want to tell her about that. Didn’t want her to search it up on the internet and actually find out everything I had been through. She was too young for that…
Except when I was her age I’d finally been free of Andrew’s abuse, only to have to go to trial after trial to tell my story.
She bent forward and picked up the knife. She turned it around in her hand, studied the bloodied blade.
I wanted to take it from her, to throw it away, to tell her to never look at it. But I didn’t. Instead I just sat there, watching her out of the corner of my eye.
‘Why don’t you start a blog?’
‘A blog?’
‘Yeah, a blog. You know, like a journal, only digital and in the public domain. Some people find it more therapeutic to share on a blog where other people can comment and share their stories as well.’
I cleared my throat.
This was exactly what I didn’t want to get into.
‘Do you have a blog?’ I asked instead, trying to steer the conversation away from me.
‘Yeah.’
‘What do you have to write about for therapeutic purposes?’ As far as I knew, Matt was the only one showing signs of depression. Matilda had always been happy, well-liked, busy with her friends and after-school activities.
‘Nothing. I write a blog simply because I like to share. Daily outfits, what shoes I bought, what food I ate, what book I read. That kind of stuff. Nothing deep. But I follow blogs where people share personal things from their life. Real deep and meaningful texts. This one girl is battling eating disorders. She finds it helps to write a blog, to hear from other people in the same situation, or just from people who wish her well.’ Matilda shrugged. ‘You’re always on your laptop. What do you do on it?’
Except for the blogging I wasn’t going to tell her about…
‘Trying to write a book.’ It was going abysmal.
She turned to me, attention piqued.
‘What kind of book?’
‘Fiction, mostly, but, you know… drawing from my own life. So maybe a bit auto-biographical too. I don’t know.
I haven’t gotten that far in it. I’m better at short stories, I guess.’
Matilda put the knife back on the floor.
‘I’ve got more serious things to blog about now.’
She sure had.
‘Writing used to help. Along with therapy. Talking about it… I used to be in group therapy too.’
She eyed me wryly.
‘Start a blog,’ she suggested. ‘Then you can process things in your own home instead of having to look everyone in the eye. I don’t want to look anyone in the eye now. Everyone’s going to feel so sorry for me, or tell me it’s going to get better, or what I can do to make it better. It doesn’t feel like it’s ever going to get better.’
What could I say to that?
It was six years since my life had turned better, except not by much. Everything that had happened before still plagued me, by nightmares, flashbacks, or just all around anxiety.
‘It’s not going to. Ever.’ I’d have to live with my past. It wasn’t ever going to go away. Unless I got amnesia, but what were the odds? Or if I got Alzheimers in my old age.
Or not… If I got that and reverted back to childhood, I would live it all over again.
‘I don’t know what we’re going to do now.’ She looked so small, so fragile. ‘In less than twelve hours it’ll all be so final. I don’t think it’s quite sunk in yet, you know, but once Dad’s in the ground… it will. And what’re we supposed to do then? I don’t think Mum’s going to be able to keep it together afterwards. She’s barely keeping it together now. Matt and I are both in college. I don’t even know how Matt’s holding up, since he’s cooped up in his room. We can’t take care of ourselves.’
I bit my lip.
What could I say to that?
I was twenty-one years old, mostly unable to take care of myself, on disability because my diagnosis currently made it impossible for me to get a proper job. No education, no nothing. I couldn’t help her—them. I couldn’t even help myself.
‘Damian and Chloe—even Mum—say we shouldn’t worry. I don’t see how we can’t though. I mean, Mum’s got a good job and all, but this house…’ She looked around. ‘It’s a big house. Probably expensive. I know they haven’t paid it off. I’ve heard them talk about money.’ She swallowed. ‘I don’t think Mum’s going to be able to afford to keep the house on her own. So where are we going to live? Where are we going to go? I mean, they’ve probably got life insurance—not that Mum talks to me about it—but… I don’t know. Maybe we could sue? He broke the rules, didn’t he, your stepfather? When he came after you? He killed Dad.’
Well, she was certainly more in-tune with all this than I was. I didn’t even know what to say because what she’d just rattled off, I hadn’t even thought about any of it. Yes, I reckoned a house was expensive, and the debt they must have on it… I had no idea what would happen now. At all.
I was woefully ignorant. I’d never had to worry about this. Mum had always earned good money, and even if she hadn’t, Grandma came from money so it wasn’t like our family would ever be poor.
‘Have you ever experienced anyone dying before? Someone close to you?’
‘No.’ No one in my family. ‘Yes.’ My thoughts went back three years, to Mal and the friendship I’d thought we’d started to build. Only he’d thrown himself in front of a car. After shoving me out of the way so I couldn’t stop him. That had landed me in hospital for over a month.
Mal had been even more of a mess than me. Maybe it was better for him now, not to live with all the horrible things he’d experienced. As far as I knew, he hadn’t actually had anyone of his own. Not like I, who’d had Mum and now Damian.
‘How’d they die?’
Should I tell her? It might not be good, all things considered, but I couldn’t lie either.
‘He jumped in front of an oncoming car.’ Ray hadn’t jumped though, he’d been the victim of a car-crash through no fault of his own.
‘Oh.’
Heavy silence.
‘He was like me. Borderline. Emotionally unstable. Except his past was even worse than mine. I didn’t think that was possible, but in group therapy… well, you hear a lot of stories. A lot of shit. A lot of messed-up things.’
Matilda closed her eyes.
I caught sight of tears squeezing their way underneath her lids to trickle down her cheek.
‘I get suicide. Some say it’s selfish to do that, but I don’t know—If you really, really don’t want to live, then suicide is better, isn’t it? But Dad… he wanted to live. He had lots of things to live for. That he was taken from us like this—that I don’t get. It’s not fair.’
‘No. It isn’t.’ Seeing her crying made it all the more difficult to hold back my own tears. Holding back was not one of my strengths. Usually it all came tumbling out in a waterfall of tears and tantrums and neediness and desperation and impulsivity.
She cried silently, the only sign of it was the tears and her trembling. I didn’t know what to do, if there was anything I could do to make her feel better, so I simply sat there with my hands in my lap. The blood still trickled, my joggers absorbing it as it fell.
This was us: bonding on the kitchen floor. Bleeding, crying, grieving.
And tomorrow… or today, depending on how one looked at it… was going to be even worse.
38
Nothing Will Ever Be the Same
Josh
I woke to an empty bed. The other side was cold, so Damian must’ve already been up a while. I sat up and rubbed my eyes, wondering what time it was. I’d been up so late. I hoped I hadn’t overslept.
No… Damian would’ve woken me if that was the case.
Then again, light was filtering through the window, bathing the room in bright light.
I threw my feet off the edge of the bed. My joggers were discarded on the floor and I sighed as I saw the blood stains. Damian must’ve seen them too, they stood out bright against the grey.
My bag lay at the foot of the bed, and I bent over to fish a new pair out of it. When I saw my suit, I sighed, because I’d forgotten to hang it up. Now it was probably wrinkled.
Once I’d hung it up, I finally ventured upstairs.
What awaited me now?
Silence, was what. Damian was at the table, elbows on the wood, and head in his hands. Breakfast stood untouched in front of him.
‘Morning.’ I couldn’t get myself to say good morning because it sure wasn’t. This would be a very hard day.
Damian didn’t answer.
I went to his side, bent to kiss his temple, and then positioned myself behind him to rub at his tense shoulders.
I can be a good boyfriend.
I can do this. Be of support.
Pep-talks never helped me. Perhaps this would be the first.
‘Anyone else up?’
‘Chloe’s in the living room. Matilda made breakfast and retreated to her room. Claire… I don’t know.’
‘What about Matt?’ I still hadn’t seen or heard him. Nor had I seen or heard Storm. Was she still locked up in Matt’s room too?
Damian only shook his head.
I retreated to the kitchen counter to make breakfast for both myself and for Matt. If he wouldn’t come down, I’d bring it up. Damian had done that for me many times when I’d been too depressed to get out of bed.
A tentative knock on Matt’s door turned up no answer.
‘Matt?’ I knocked again, but when he still didn’t answer, I tried the knob. The door swung open.
Matt was lying stretched out on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Storm’s little, fluffy body was curled up against his waist.
‘I made you breakfast.’ I held the plate and glass of milk out, both to show him and hoping he’d take it.
He didn’t.
I put it on his nightstand.
Matt didn’t so much as move a muscle.
I looked down at him. Just started college, still underage, and having lost his dad. I knew I’d feel pretty helpless if I e
ver lost Mum, but I couldn’t even begin to fathom how he must feel right now.
I felt completely out of my depth.
Was this how Mum had felt back when she’d found out about the abuse? About what her husband was capable of? Back when I’d been so depressed and self-destructive and suicidal I hadn’t known what was up and what was down? It was awful not knowing what to do. Not knowing what would be an appreciated gesture and what would not be.
‘I’m here if you want to talk.’ Talking had helped me. It still did. I still went to therapy.
There was no answer from Matt. No acknowledgement.
‘Please eat.’ I glanced at the food. Glanced back at him. I doubted he would, but at least I’d tried. That was all I could do.
I turned and left the room, Storm now following in my footsteps, yawning wide. She likely needed to go outside and do her business.
I felt rather helpless.
There was a deep, rectangular hole in the ground. That’s where the coffin would go.
Actually seeing it lowered, put into a dark hole, and knowing that it would soon be filled up by dirt again… it was not a good feeling.
Everyone would die in the end. Some would end up in a coffin, like Ray. Others would be cremated. Everyone would end up like this, one way or another. Everyone would die sometime. Even if they’d end up in the ground or cremated, everyone would die. It was a fact of life.
I’d tried my best to die a few times, but I’d always failed at it. Now, staring down at the hole in the ground, I was glad I’d failed.
What if it had been me lying dead in a coffin, being dropped into a hole and then covered with dirt? Maggots would start eating through, everything would rot eventually, until only bones were left…
I turned my back on the sight, horrified at my own thoughts.
This is about them. It’s not about me.
Everything wasn’t about me—today nothing was about me.
