Look What You've Done Now

The colossal map of Middle Earth clung desperately to its fixings on the wall as the door slammed shut with the force of an earthquake. Its neighbour, an art deco style poster, hung askew, threatening the grip of the shiny red race car that hugged the streets of Monaco. The rest of the eclectic art collection had gotten off lightly, with only a tiny watercolour painting half-way up the hallway promiscuously flirting with the idea of sliding from its hook. The scrappy mongrel now cocked its multicoloured head at Van Gogh's Sunflowers sitting opposite.

Radiance flooded through the frosted glass that embraced the front door, bathing the ever so perfectly chosen rug that led from the front door, to the crumpled heap of a woman at the end of the hall. Willow’s mascara streaked face lifted just in time to see Middle Earth crash and fall, glass fragmenting like fairy dust in the sunlight.

As if breaking me wasn’t enough for him, she thought as her chin lowered to her knees. Tears tickled bare legs, meandering their way to her calves through the maze of prickly hairs that had started to appear.

How did I get here? She wondered.

She had been twenty two when she met Steve in the fancy new bar in town. It wasn’t the type of place she would typically enjoy, but her friends had convinced her to try it on the basis that they were rumoured to serve the best espresso martinis. After sampling three of them, just to be sure they were in fact the best, she sloppily made her way to the bathroom and was stopped in her tracks when she came face to god-like face with a man she couldn’t have dreamed of. Wow, those eyes, she had thought. A stormy sky reflected in a raging sea, and she was the fish on the end of his hook.

Her friends weren’t happy when he stole Willow away from them, but her guilt quickly faded as they laughed and flirted in a cosy corner, until they were being steered out of the now empty bar. She was completely under his spell. At first the relationship had felt like a fairy-tale ending, but just a few short months after that enchanting night, it had started to morph into the beginning of a dark, festering horror that seemed inescapable.

It happened so gradually she hardly noticed until it was too late. The midnight business calls that summoned him away, demanding his attention until the sun was pouring into Willow’s unrested eyes. In the beginning she attempted to ask where he had been, hell, she didn’t even know what his job was other than he’d said he was some sort of business consultant. She rapidly learnt to stop asking questions. Then there was the sudden realisation that her wardrobe was at least seventy percent changed from when they’d met. Denim dungarees and cosy cardigans had been superseded by fitted skirts and cashmere sweaters, the kind of clothes Steve thought were classy, instead of her “dirty hippy clothes" he had called them. The moment she realised it was too late came around five months after their first encounter. The day she was presented with a fairly sizable slither of the real Steve for breakfast.

“Steve I forgot to mention, I’ll be late back from work on Friday. I’m meeting Sasha and Mark for a few drinks down The Bridge Inn.” She said as she coaxed tea bags out of their steaming mugs. “Steve?”

She glanced over the shoulder of her flowing satin dressing gown to find him turned to stone in the kitchen doorway. He had his perfectly sculpted back to her, but she could tell by the vast consignment of air his lungs had just taken in, that his carefully curated cast was about to shatter.

“Steve? Did you Hea…” Her voice faltered as he pivoted to face her, and with one menacing stride he was close enough for her to feel the rage emanating from his perfectly formed face.

“Yes, I heard you!” He snarled, boiling. “And who the fuck is Mark?”

When she didn’t immediately respond, his arms locked her in, his white knuckles grabbing the table top behind her, holding her captive until further notice. His beautifully intimidating face, less than an inch from hers manifested last night’s vodka, presenting it to the follicles in her nostrils. Willow had to work hard not to gag.

“Well?”

“He… He’s someone from work… Just a friend. Please Steve,” She begged, “you don’t need to worry about Mark. I promise!”

Then his hand was clamped around her throat. Her clammy skin was suddenly ablaze. Every cell in her body screamed for oxygen that it might never get. She pleaded with her eyes for him to stop.

“You will never mention another man’s name to me again. Is that clear?”

She tried to nod but she couldn’t budge from his stone grip.

“I said, is that clear?” he spat with venom.

“Y…Y…es.” she managed to croak.

For a split second his grip tightened then she was sent cascading into the mugs where he watched her gasping, soaked in tea and tears.

“Look what you’ve done now.” He said before he turned and walked out the door.

Willow called in sick that day, and for the rest of the week. There’s no way she could have gone to work wearing the shadow of Steve’s fingers around her neck, her medal of honour, first prize for having the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

He had apologized profusely of course. A skill he developed brilliantly over the years they were together. And she believed him. But she never mentioned another man's name again. That day had been just a bitter little morsel of what he had to offer. She quit her job the following month.

As she peeled herself from the hallway floor she thought of her Mum’s final words to her last week. She had managed to sneak a quick phone call in at the payphone in town when she went to pick up Steve’s new golf glove. She knew she didn’t have much time, he would be watching the tracker on her phone.

“Willow, promise me something.” Her Mum had said. Willow didn’t need to be able to see her to know her Mum’s eyes were pooled with tears. “Promise me you’ll think about my offer.”

Willow knew her Mum had guessed way more than she’d ever let on about her relationship with Steve. She wondered whether it was just her Mum or if all parents could instinctively tell when their child was in danger, even if they were hundreds of miles away in a completely different country.

“I promise I’ll think about it Mum.” was all she had said before hanging up the phone, scurrying out of the phone box and up the street towards the car park.

She shuffled into the kitchen, fingers walking through her hair, matted with congealed blood, until they found a mound fissured with raw flesh. The first aid kit was looking a bit sparse but she managed to find the last anti-septic wipe and some medical tape. She considered herself almost as good as the pros at applying her own first aid treatments now. If nursing was an Olympic sport she’d be on team GB after the practice she had gotten thanks to Steve. She finished up applying the medical tape, best she could with the masses of hair she had to contend with, then sank into the chesterfield by the window. She watched a song thrush dance along a branch of the young oak tree in the garden, and was reminded again of the conversation with her Mum when it reached its nest full of ravenous chicks.

“Listen Willow, I know things are bad there - don’t try to tell me they’re not again, because I know when you’re in trouble - so I want to help you get out.”

“Mum, please I - “

“No Willow. I need you to hear this. I’ve sent plane tickets and five hundred pounds in cash to a PO box in -”

“Mum! No.”

“Seriously Willow!” She desperately pleaded. “To a PO box in Manchester. There’s a letter waiting for you at the Parkgate Hotel with the PO box address. Now, you have your passport right?

“Mum, this is ridiculous.”

Willow, tell me you have your passport safe?”

“Yes.” She sighed. “It's safe.”

“Good. Now, I know he sends you into the city on Thursdays for that fancy vodka he drinks, so next week I want you to go to the hotel and call me from there. The flight leaves at six twenty that evening. Me and Gary will be at Barcelona airport to pick you up when you land.”

Willow had dismissed the idea entirely at the time. But now, it didn’t seem so far-fetched. Her hand wondered subconsciously to the fresh wound on her head as she relived this morning's attack. His monstrous hand woven into her hair. The burst of stabbing tenderness as her head was violently steered into the wall.

“You will do as I say, you disobedient bitch” he had growled as her head repeatedly collided with the plaster.

Maybe she could do it. Just maybe. Manchester was a big city. She could leave her phone in the local distillery where he sent her every Thursday - god forbid he had to drink some other expensive brand of Vodka that could be easily ordered online. That way he wouldn’t be able to track her, and really, what were the chances he would find her once she’d left the general area.

“This is crazy.” She sighed to herself as she shambled back towards the hallway to check out how much cleaning up she had to do.

A chill zipped down her spine and she froze in front of the brutal Mid-Century mirror over the fireplace. Who is that woman? She thought. Abraded eyes surveyed her from the frame. How strange, she thought, that something so closely resembling an animal awaiting slaughter, would adorn such a beautifully chic sun dress. The longer the eyes stared back at her the more feral they appeared, the more alien they looked in the body that harboured them.

“This isn’t me!” She screamed with an animalistic roar.

Heat bubbled in her veins. Four years worth of rage threatening to erupt. Then an almighty crash, mingled with a high pitched wail brought Willow to her knees. Her eyes dropped to Steve’s bronze golf club that had somehow made its way from its stand into her hands.

Light traversed in prisms around the room, reflecting off the glittering shards of mirror that carpeted the floor, and a guttural scream thickened the air as Willow threw herself to her feet, the golf club hot on her heels. Golf trophies evicted from their homes soared through the room and smashed into perfectly decorated walls. The TV enveloped the club as Willow perfected her downswing with strength she had forgotten she had. She spun on her heel, the golf club whirring through the air searching for its next victim. It was met with a soft, dull thud before clattering to the floor.

The fury drained from her face as if someone had just removed a plug, and a tap topped her up with gelid dread. She mustn't have heard him come back. Now there he was slumped in a sea of his shattered belongings blood.

For the third time that day Willow sank to the floor, her gaping eyes fixed on his. Steve stared back. Those storm cloud eyes, once again transfixed her. Unblinking. Unseeing.

“Look what you’ve done now.” Whispered Willow.