The lines on her hands

She sat in a chair on the patio, it was almost sunset as she looked out at the garden, her garden, and thought about how different life had been. It still surprised her that she was able to find peace in the smallest of things now, that she was able to find peace at all. She looked down at her hand as she reached for her tea and noticed the lines, wondering to herself as she did often about how her life had left its mark there, just as it had on the rest of her. She wondered if this contemplation of age was due to a time when she didn’t think she ever would. When every day was a torturous gift because she was with him and escaping him had been something too terrifying to even contemplate, until he had taken something that made it impossible to move anywhere but forward.

Fists slammed into flesh, she crumpled to the tiles and felt the coolness through the pain. His anger was like a heavy fog in the kitchen. She could hear him yelling but the fog was in her head too and she wasn’t able to grasp what he was saying. She was worried about the baby, the one who had been with her, growing, for 16 weeks now, the light that had started as a pin prick and grown into a headlight of love and fear. Love she had never know and fear for what was to come. She didn’t move. Sometimes that was enough to stop him and she couldn’t risk a kick, or many, not when he could hurt more than her. It wasn’t enough. She felt the steel toe collide with her stomach and was overwhelmed by fear, she knew begging did nothing but she tried anyway. The boot kept coming, relief when it hit parts of her that didn’t risk what she was most afraid to lose. She could smell blood and she sobbed, desperate to know where the blood was coming from, desperate not to lose the light that had kept her going. The hope that had started to form. She was woozy and her vision was blurred, she fought to stay conscious but her body was winning, all she felt was terror as her vision went black.

She woke to blurred sight and silence. There was pain, she was used to that but it wasn the ache in her abdomen that made her stir before she was ready, her hand crept to the small bump that had begun to form and then lower, to the blood pooling below her, the blood that meant more than she was hurt. She tried to stand, too quickly, almost seeing black again but she held on, needed to, needing help for more than herself. She knew he was gone, he always was after, never wanting to see the aftermath until it was clean and nothing more than bruises on her flesh. She needed a plan but had never been brave enough to have one so she worked with instinct. She walked slowly holding the wall and conserving her strength. She needed a phone, something she didn’t have, wasn’t allowed to have, after all the biggest emergency she could have was him. She stumbled to the door and made her way into the dusk lit summer evening.

Every step was torture but she continued to shuffle until she hit the pavement, she walked for what would only have been minutes but felt like days, blood drenching her legs and dripping behind her. There was a coffee shop a block away, on good days he would allow her to get them coffee and breakfast to eat at the house so the route was familiar. She shuffled and prayed, no sobs, shouts or screams, just resilient movement forward. She pushed the door open, the bell tinkling as she entered, the barista looked up and went white before screaming a name and calling for someone to call 000. There were people surrounding her, asking her what had happened, asking where she hurt but all she did, all she could do, was tell them to save her baby before the quiet of shock came.

The ambulance was loud, beeping and voices both within the van and through the radio, sirens and the sound of tyres. The paramedic had put in an IV, saying it would help the pain but she knew nothing could help this pain, the pain of potential loss, the panic of her hope being taken away. She felt drowsy, didn’t want to, wanted to be awake and alert but the darkness took her anyway. She entered the blackness, not sure if this was death or sleep.

The sheets were crisp under her fingers, the room smelt clean, like a mix of fresh sheets and disinfectant. The pain was there, like a dull ache she knew would be far worse without the painkillers dripping into the tube in her arm, she knew because she had felt the pain before without them. She wasn’t alone, a woman sat in the chair beside her, a stranger, she turned and looked towards her but didn’t speak. The woman looked like she went out of her way to look approachable, mannerisms, dress and smile all designed to create ease. Before the woman could speak she opened her mouth and asked after her baby, her light, the woman’s smile faltered, turned down at the corners and her eyes expressed the sorrow that was an answer all its own. Her insides cracked apart, having her greatest fear confirmed stealing all hope from her body. Guilt took over, a building numbness grew as the woman started to speak, talk of shelters and assistance and escape. Of arrests and trials. It all felt too late and too soon all at once. She stayed quiet and let the woman talk, knowing that what she had lost was worth so much more than she ever would be.

The summer sun was beginning to set now, she sighed and stood with one last look out to the garden and she entered the home, their home, life had moved forward. It had taken her years to let it but eventually she settled and allowed a future to happen. She had met him 5 years later and slowly, so incredibly slowly, she had allowed him to peel back the layers of the onion she had become. She walked down the hall and paused to look at the pictures of family, moments captured in time, to the life she had never believed herself worthy of before, the life she had been conditioned not to think she was worthy of. She reminisced on the never ending moments of peace and happiness that had scattered her existence after the loss she never thought she would heal from. She entered the living room and he was there, a gentle smile, she told him she would change so they could leave for their daughters to help cook dinner, the baby was new and she was fully aware of the challenges of raising an infant. They stepped out into the summer evening and he passed his fingers over the back of her hand. The hand that had lines, the hand that showed her life and all she felt was peace.