Don't Look Away

Themes of emotional abuse and domestic violence

Act 1

He is walking into the room and it feels as if the walls are closing in behind him. His force is enough to draw in the brick and cement, make it bend around his aura and cage me in. He is smiling. As always. It’s insincere. It’s his warm up routine. The Grand performance is about to begin, the drums roll as the guests start their procession to the front door. Come one come all and witness this great showman revive the role of a lifetime. Mister nice guy! Do anything for anyone, guy! Mister, let me help YOU … As long as there is an audience, as long as there's attention and praise, he’ll be whoever you want him to be. Just don’t look away. Don’t let the sunshine of pretty words dim. 

Please don’t look away. 

When the adoring eyes drift and refocus elsewhere, I’m all that's left. My flaws, my weaknesses.The sole focus, unable to live up to the love that a crowd has to offer. I’m not enough, never have been. I tried, for years I tried. I rang out all the light and joy and love I had, all the confidence and self worth my parents had installed in me as a child. I laid it out for him and he drank it up day after day. My resources are low. What happens when happiness runs out? 

The doorbell just rang, and so it begins. The greatest show on earth.

Act 2 

We have all taken our seat around the table, everyone is so animated. Excited to be together again. Life separates friends and family all too often but here they all are. His parents adoringly hanging off their baby boys every word. His brother talking to his college friends and his wife… I’m ignored. He is sat at the head of the table surveying his audience. They’re good people but naive. After all these years they still don’t see who he is. Would they believe me if I told them what was really happening? What would they say if I told them I was going to leave? 

The food takes up the entire table, there's hardly room for our individual plates and glasses. Eat up everyone! To be fair the man can cook. He’s a food snob, only the freshest produce, only the best cuts of meat from his favourite independent farm. I won’t be eating this good for a while. I should enjoy it while I can. There are piles of prime beef, medium rare cow flesh, laid out in front of us as tribute. They died to sustain us, I died to sustain him.

I wonder what I will eat after I leave? What I’ll consume to sustain the new me. What will I need to rebuild? God this steak is good, how does he do this? I’ve almost finished already. I haven’t paused my fork once, no one has asked me a question in thirty minutes, not since “pass the potatoes please”. I don’t care though. I just want to eat. Take it all in, fill myself for once. Enjoy myself for once. It’s only one more night, let him get mad, let him talk about my weight and my wide flat arse. I wonder if a few extra squats would really have made a difference in how he sees me. These potatoes are perfect, crispy on the outside, soft and fluffy on the inside. Why is everyone cheering? What happened, what did I miss?

 Act 3

 No, no please, take it back. Say it was a joke. She can’t be pregnant. The crowd turns, the understudy takes centre stage. The fertility monologue begins. His eyes move to me. Why am I not pregnant? Why am I so useless? Why am I so boring and pointless? I ruined the party, I couldn’t keep our guests happy and entertained so they switched focus. It's all my fault. Two years in and I haven’t come close to a baby. 

I know it's what he wants. I know he wants the glory of fatherhood. He wants admiration. To post pictures changing diapers, feeding it at night and carrying his legacy around on his back. The reality behind the photos won’t matter. The way he flinches at a toddler laughing, the clenched fist at babies unable to sit still, his complete disinterest in children. That story won’t make it to social media. That reality is hidden, it doesn’t suit his narrative. The audience doesn't care about us anymore. They are too busy celebrating. Basking in the glory of conception. The Joy of New life. How could she do this to me?

He forgets himself, forgets where he is and lets his disdain show through. Briefly. Now he will bury it below a smile to try and win them back. He will be the happiest! He will be louder in his praise than anyone else!  He’ll draw back attention by how joyful he can be, oh what a wonderful man who can be so happy for others when his own wife won’t give him a baby.

I won’t give him a baby. No one should get everything they want. His last attempt didn't work. Not this time. He retreats to the kitchen. Maybe a new amuse bouche will bring the crowd back. How can a foetus compare to caviar on crackers!I know it's useless but I’m going to let him try just so I can see him fail.

Encore

The curtain is coming down and people are leaving their seats. The star of the show has become weary. I can’t be here alone with him. I tell him I need to shower and I run. I slam the door and start the water. How long do I have here? How long before my show ends?

I can hear him now, pacing and crashing things around. Tidying up. This performance is just for me, how special I am. He's not really cleaning, not sorting. Just kind of loudly moving things around. He needs more ammunition, he wants to make me feel bad. To give the appearance that he's toiling away while I selfishly shower. The same routine after every event, normally it makes my skin crawl. Tonight is different. Tonight what waits behind the bathroom door is more aggressive than passive.

I wonder if they know the shadow they cast when they turn away? Would they do anything if they did know? If I left tonight would they take me in? Would they believe me? Would they tell me to come back and work it out? How long can I wait? Maybe I’m being dramatic? Maybe it's not all that bad? Maybe I’m just paranoid? There's toes, toes blocking the light under the door. Innocent little toes. The vulnerability of bare feet is striking. Crooked and pale. Bones so fragile and easily broken. Harmless wonky little toes. How could I be afraid of a creature being carried around on something so tragically weak?

I suppose this is it then. The performance is well and truly over. Time to leave the theatre and step back into reality. I’ll leave you here then, I can’t take you where I’m going.

Maybe speak tomorrow? If I’m still here in the morning I’ll get in touch. If you want me to? 

Ok, well I guess this is goodbye then.