The greater scheme of things

TW. Some strong language; allusion to abuse.

“I’ve got a plan,” said Adea. “I’m sure you do,” replied Vivica automatically. She loved Adea dearly, but sometimes she was much too optimistic. Generally, that’s what one would want from a best friend, but she was like Vivica’s polar opposite. “Seriously, Viv, I do - you’ve just got to hear me out. We’re getting your stuff back!” The girl was basically quivering with enthusiasm. 

Viv often felt guilty for bringing her friend back down to earth, because they’d had each other’s backs for years and Adea was always the one that kept her chin up when things weren’t going according to plan. She didn’t blame her for her perpetual pep - honestly, she was sometimes even kind of jealous of her friend’s ability to always see a silver lining instead of the steaming piles of shit one tended to step into more often than not. 

The last two days have been tumultuous to say the least. Vivica was running on only a couple of hours’ sleep and had only had filling station chicken pies and coffee for her last few meals. Adea mockingly shook her forefinger at her friend, pretending to scold her, trying to make light of the situation. “Now, Vivica C Bernard, what have I told you about eating your vegetables? An apple a day, or at least a fruit roll-up, is what you need. I’m sure I’ve got a snack bar in my bag…” she trailed off as she started digging in her satchel. “Thanks, Adi,” mumbled Vivica as she unwrapped the snack Adea handed her. “No problem, girl, I’ve got you,” smiled Adea, upbeat as always, “and like I said, we’re getting your stuff back.” Vivica just shook her head at her friend’s unjustified optimism. “We’re going to get help.”

She was stuck, faced with two choices: go back to work (which had been her own plan) or go to the police like Adea had suggested. After the phone call two days ago that threatened her very existence, she could choose to go back and take her umpteenth and probably final beating, or she could walk with her best friend to the nearest police station in the middle of the night and ask for help.

Vivica’s father had made it abundantly clear that he would kill her if she ever set foot in his house again. She shuddered. “You’re right,” she muttered to Adea, who simply took Vivica’s hand and squeezed it tight. She realised that she needed help getting her things out of that hell hole. Tired after the evening shift, smelling of smoke, restaurant grease, sweat and what could only be described as fear, she’d walked with her friend, almost without thinking, to one of the city’s seedier neighbourhoods, where the nearest police station was situated. It was probably cold outside, as it was well past midnight, but the cocktail of terror and adrenaline likely kept her from feeling it.

In something that seems like a trance, a kind of daze, Vivica made her way through the already open double doors leading into the police station. A clerk asked her how he could help. She didn’t recall what exactly she’d said, but she somehow felt calm. Maybe it was something closer to resignation or something wholly different, but she was not anxious. Somehow the young man saw that she was unsure of what to say. He asked if she needed to speak to anyone in particular, or whether she wanted to take a seat and wait for the next available officer on duty. She nodded at the latter.

Whether it was the mere act of sitting down or the fact that she was so exhausted, she sighed heavily and closed her eyes, pushing the knuckles of her clenched hands deep into her sockets – so deep that she saw only stars. She remembered feeling vaguely nauseated, and bone weary. When her vision normalised, she could see the harshness, the starkness of the station – utilitarian almost. The hard, worn bench she was sitting on, somehow felt comfortable (or comforting at least). It somehow acted as a sort of anchor, the only thing that connected her to that place in that moment – it’s as if it drew her back to herself, giving her something on which to focus her attention, something tangible, something simple. The hardness of the place itself was reassuring in a way. There was nothing to steal her attention, her focus, from the looming, daunting task that lay ahead, even if she had Adea at her side, who at this point seemed to somehow be slightly out of focus when Vivica looked at her.

Her feet were planted solidly on the scuffed, stained floor; the harsh fluorescent lights were flickering, illuminating the whole place in a somewhat sad, yet calm hue. At that moment, she was not aware of the deep contrast between the simple surroundings in which she found herself and the tumultuous, overwhelming, almost suffocating complexity of her thoughts. She was sitting in a police station, in the middle of the night, about to ask a complete stranger for help.

What she knew she had to do, without knowing how to do it, was get what few things she could carry from her father’s house without getting herself killed in the process. She had some money, some emergency rations, an overnight bag and her most important documents and photos stashed in a crate under her bed. She felt like getting at the contents of that crate was the only and most important thing in the world at that moment. She had some clothes and other things stored at the accommodation she used while she was studying, but there was no way to get to it for a couple of weeks. Having a definite goal in mind probably made it easier to get up from the bench under the notice board with its frayed and tattered flyers. When the warrant officer on duty said “Next, please,” Vivica didn’t even hesitate. “How can we help you tonight, Ma’am?” asked the young man. She knew exactly what to say. “I need to know how to go about getting an officer to go with me to my home. My physical safety has been threatened and I need help so that no more harm comes to me.” He asked her whether she needed to press any charges. She said, “No, not at this point.” He asked whether she had somewhere safe to go. “My friend is here with me,” said Vivica, looking over her shoulder to where Adea sat quietly, nodding in a reassuring manner. The officer nodded and said that they were going to drive the girls to Vivica’s home to collect her things and ensure that she had somewhere safe to sleep.

She climbed into the back seat, directing them to the place that had all but broken her… the place to which she would never have to return. With every city block that passed, Vivica could feel herself tense up more and more. “Pull up around the corner – not the front door,” came Adea’s self-assured voice from next to her friend. They could see that the lights were on inside the house. The TV was flashing in the living room, as always. One of the officers asked Vivica whether she wanted them to knock before she went inside or whether she wanted to go in with them or Adea. “Neither,” Vivica replied in a hoarse whisper.

She was going to get in and get out before anyone could register that she had even been there. Vivica walked up to the gate that led to the back yard. It had had a lock that had been rusted shut for as long as she could remember. She also knew where to step when climbing over the shoulder-height gate so that it didn’t creak. She took off her work apron and set it down on the concrete driveway. Carefully, but quickly, she clambered over the gate in the dark and made her way to the house’s maid’s quarters which had served as her bedroom.

Before she unlocked the door, she stood dead still, straining to listen for movement in the house or yard. Her heart was pounding wildly in her ears. As quietly as she could, she entered her room and closed the door behind herself, just in case her father came knocking. Vivica pulled the crate from under her bed and took out the contents. “Two full minutes - that’s it,” she muttered, “that’s all the time I’m going to give myself.” She packed what she thought she’d need. She packed everything into an old kit bag she stashed at the back of a cupboard. She grabbed her already packed toiletry bag from the basin in the room and stuffed it into the backpack that held her “go kit”. Vivica glanced around the room, not feeling a single iota of sentiment. She knew that there were things in the house that she wanted to take, but she would not risk it.

She took two slow, deep breaths, trying to slow her heart rate, and left the room without so much as a backward glance. She left the key in the lock, not even bothering to close it. She hauled herself and the two bags back over the gate, and got back into the patrol car. She put the large bag on her lap and handed the backpack to Adea. The female officer turned to both girls and asked, “Is that it?” “Yes,” replied Adea, as Vivica sat staring at the car’s floor in silence.

Fifteen minutes later, they pulled up to Adea’s building. Vivica got out of the vehicle and Adea was left to thank the officers for both of them. A wave of relief washed over Vivica as they walked into Adea’s small apartment. Vivica sat down, clutching the bag to her chest. She felt ashamed that this was what her life was reduced to at that moment. “It’s going to be OK, Viv,” said Adea, placing the backpack on the floor next to where her friend was sitting. Vivica put down her bag and, just like she had at the station, placed her feet firmly on the ground, pressed her knuckles to her eyes and quietly wept. 

It had taken maybe 30 minutes for her life to change irrevocably. “Viv, I know it doesn’t seem that way now, but that was probably the bravest thing you’ll ever do. I know you must have been absolutely terrified, but it was the right decision.” She sat down next to Vivica, who had never been one for hugs, and put her arm around her friend’s shoulders. Adea spoke softly, “My mom always said that bravery isn’t the absence of fear – it is acting, taking a stand, doing what needs to be done, in spite of the fear. I’m proud of you, Viv.” Vivica rested her head on her friend’s shoulder, crying quietly all the while. “Hey, Viv, can I ask you something? Why didn’t you ever go to the police when he hurt you?” 

“It’s kind of difficult to explain, Adi,” she answered softly. “When you grow up believing that what you are going through is “normal”, convincing yourself otherwise is nearly impossible. You are raised to believe that you are wrong, that what you do and say is wrong, that you deserve your “punishment”. Of course, children should be reprimanded when they do something wrong, but what that man did to me was not just punishment. I would always be in trouble – for breaking a plate, knocking over a glass, talking too loudly, leaving home too early, not leaving early enough… the reasons were ridiculous. When you’re in the middle of all of this, staying safe, staying quiet, being good… these were the things that mattered.” Adea looked at her, patiently waiting to say the rest of the words that seemed on the verge of bursting out. 

Vivica continued, now no longer crying. “As kids, we’re taught that the police are our friends, that they’ll protect us, keep us safe. As a kid, I didn’t believe this. My father had been a police officer – in my mind, the image of what the police would do to you if you were “bad”, probably kept me from speaking up sooner. Thinking back, I wish I could run up to that little girl, take her hand, and get her away from it all. I don’t know whether to feel sad or angry about the fact that I was so broken, that I thought I’d be punished by anyone in a position of authority. I was always so scared. Of course, the fear itself was a factor too. I was so scared of what he’d do if I told someone. If the smallest things set him off, imagine what this would have done. I was actually afraid of getting into more trouble if I told anyone what my father was doing to me. By the time I realised that what was going on was so far from normal, I didn’t even think of reaching out. I felt convinced that I somehow deserved what was happening. I had been conditioned not to question, not to talk back, not to speak up – stay quiet, stay safe.”

“By the time I reached high school, so many other traumas had been heaped on top of the abuse at home, that I felt utterly dejected – I felt so ashamed of myself, of the situation I was in. In hindsight, I think it was the shame, rather than the fear, that kept me quiet for so long. I didn’t want people to know what was happening. I didn’t want them to see inside my life. I didn’t want them to see that I had “allowed” it to carry on for so long. As an adult, I understand that this way of thinking was completely warped, but 16-year-old me could not fathom actually speaking the words to anyone… as if saying it out loud would make it more real.”

“You never told me any of this, Viv. I would have been there - I would have listened. “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“Adea, you think that it’s such a simple question. Why didn’t I say anything? I couldn’t.”