The last breakfast

02/01/2020

Dear Diary, 

I don’t know who else to tell, and I feel even in telling you now, my words aren’t safe. So I will be as brash and brave as I can be here, because I know that as soon as these words hit your pages, you too will need to meet with the fire. I’m sure he knows where I keep you. I’ve even taken to changing your location each night. But it would only take one thorough rummage for all of this to be over. And now that I’m finally sure of what I have to do, I cannot risk him knowing my plan. 

I told you, you too will need to meet with fire. Well I suppose that’s what happened today. I don’t have the guts to tell you straightforwardly. So let me write to you as though I was telling you a story. Maybe that way it will be easier? I can pretend I’m not really talking about myself, you know? 

So today was a Sunday like any other. Although it wasn’t. We awoke in the middle of the night to the thick stench of smoke around the room. It smelt as though we were in a bushfire! I panicked instantly, of course, dreamy with sleep, not realizing that our house is nowhere near any bush, we are unlikely to be in real danger. “Go back to sleep," he barked. “It’s just coming through the air vents, there must be a fire somewhere.”

It’s so hot these days, you know? The real true blue Australian summer. The kind that makes you sweat indoors before you have even had your morning coffee. 

So we woke up ratty from the broken sleep, and with swollen eyes, no doubt from all the wayward smoke. We went outside and the sky was apocalyptic. I have never in all my life seen a sky like this so far from the bush. It looked like a grotesque oil painting, thick with paint lines of smog, and orange hues of flames that should have been far away. The air seemed to be at least 80 percent smoke. Even indoors it felt hard to breathe. 

He didn’t even look up when I entered the kitchen for breakfast. I could tell he was in a mood before the day had even started.

 “You forgot to buy eggs,” he told me coldly. 

“Get dressed.” It was an order.

 I knew better than to protest at this point. Two minutes later he was jangling his keys impatiently and storming towards the car. Flustered, I put on the two closest items of clothing I could find, no time to brush my teeth, or my hair, and certainly not any makeup. I ran to the car, exhaust already on, he threw me a disposable mask, and said we would need it because we would eat outside. 

Why would we eat outside? Of all the bizarre choices in the world. The day that we finally meet the apocalypse, with severe air quality warnings, he wanted to eat outside? Claro, it was punishment for not buying the eggs. So now we would eat eggs in what had essentially become an outdoor inferno. It was at least 45 degrees, and the air was insufferable. In all the fire seasons I had lived through, this day was by far the worst. 

We arrived at our normal cafe. Our regular waiter served us. The one who I suppose could be good looking in a certain light, although of course I always try not to look at him, so as not to cause problems. The one who always looks at me like he knows something I don’t know. And the one that he always looks at, like he is daring him to try something. The provocative ‘friendliness’ of Pablo that could turn to stone in any minute. 

Pablo ordered my food for me, and took out his phone. Snap. He took a photo of me, and showed me directly.

 “Look at you.” He said darkly. 

“Look at that hair, and those skinny arms, and that face.” he noted in disgust. 

It’s true I hadn’t had time to brush my hair, and I had lost a lot of weight recently, and nobody looks good with a disposable mask on at breakfast. But I knew better than to protest. He was really in a mood. So I stayed silent. 

“So”, he began,  in a tone that told me whatever he was about to say was well rehearsed. 

“How was your training with Fabio?” 

My brain froze. It was a trap. It was a trick question. There was no good way out. He was referring to my dance training with my friend Fabio. A training which I had fought very hard to even be allowed to attend. If I said it was good, he would immediately accuse me of cheating. If I said it was bad, he would immediately accuse me of lying. If I showed genuine happiness, he would become insanely jealous. If I tried to be nonchalant, he would become aggressive. 

What to do? 

Despite the insane weather conditions, there were a lot of people at the cafe, a lot of them within earshot sitting very close. 

My brain could not seem to connect to my mouth. If I’m really honest with you, I was scared. I didn’t know what to say. 

The truth is that the training was great. And of course, nothing happened. Nothing ever would. It’s just dance training after all, and I’m proffesional. But, look at me, even justifying myself here. You and I both know there is never any danger of it  being something more. 

So, I froze. And that only enraged him more.

“Answer me.” He said, coldly at first. 

I stammered. 

And he said “what? I can't hear you?”,in that threatening tone that I loathe. 

I said nothing. 

He started to yell. 

“Why can’t you fucking answer my question?” 

I started to panic. Rapid breathing, and still no words coming out. I wanted to calm him down, but I couldn't this time. People were starting to stare. He stood up. He threw cash on the table. The money I would have to use to pay for our breakfast. 

He yelled

“slut”, as he chucked his metal chair aside, threw the money on the table, and stormed out of the cafe. 

I was horrified, as horrified as I am telling you this now. He usually controlled himself better with more people around. But not this time. 

I unfroze and the adrenaline kicked in. I realized at that moment that I had nothing with me. No wallet, no car, no money. Everything was with him. Claro, como siempre. I hurried to the counter and tried to feign a smile to the waiter as I paid. I ignored the looks of the cafe goers, wishing I could just dissolve into the pavement. 

Well, I almost got my wish. 

I ran out and found him waiting at the traffic lights. He was jostling on the spot like a mad bull. 

“Hey!” I told him to let him know I was close. 

“What was that?” I asked boldly. 

 And there, in the middle of a clump of other ordinary Sunday morning brunchers also waiting for the traffic lights, he picked me up by my skinny arm, and used his 110 kg of well trained muscle to send me hurtling onto the pavement. 

I was in shock, but as you know I was raised in the fire. So my reaction was to keep running towards him. I picked myself up off the floor and literally ran after him. 

“How could you do that to me?” I protested.

 “You deserved it and I will do it again.” Was his response. 

“Get in the car.” He ordered. 

I’m so embarrassed to tell you this. I guess I will be burning these pages for my sake also. 

But I did what he said. I got in the car. I came back to the house. And for the rest of the day I acted like nothing had happened. 

I promised myself a while ago, and I promised you as well, that if I received a clear enough sign I would leave. I’ve been asking you for so long If I should stay or go. Well finally today you answered me. I know there is no turning back now. 

When I walked down the driveway on the way home, everything looked different. I felt as though I was floating above my body. Even the patterns on the floor looked different. I just had this feeling that this is not my life. I had this creepy sensation that I was living in someone else's story, you know? 

I mean, how could It not be? I am supposed to be this empowered woman. This strong, inspiring woman. I even teach other women about this. And on a casual Sunday morning breakfast my boyfriend throws me onto the floor in public? How can this be? 

I’m scared of him for real now. I can see that whatever little thread of control was holding him together has been broken. And I know how this goes. It doesn’t get better from here. 

So I’m telling you, and only you. That I have decided I will leave. And I’m writing it here as a promise to you and to myself. I also need to tell you so that I remember. He has an incredible way of making me forget, or doubt myself. He has called me a liar so many times, I even catch myself believing it at times. 

But right now, I’m lucid, and I know. This is not my story any more. If I’m really telling the truth, I pray for some kind of intervention. I’m not sure how I will be able to leave. He will never let me. 

I’m taking you to the bin now. And I’m going to burn you as a prayer. So that he may never find you, and that God, or the angels, or whoever is listening, can help me. I’ll leave, I promise I will, just show me the way out. 

25/01/2020

Dear diary, 

I have to be brief. There is much to do. It looks like the angels heard us. There is a deadly virus that has arrived on our shores, and the government wants to lock us up for protection. They are introducing travel restrictions, and quarantine by suburb. 

 The universe showed me the way out and I took it. I packed my things while he was at work today. I drove forty kilometers in the opposite direction. I sent him a message that said I would not be returning. And that’s it. 

I cried my eyes out. I cried so loudly I scared the neighbors. I really love him, but I am afraid. And I don’t know how those two things go together, or what's wrong with me. I am following my gut at this point. 

He doesn’t know where I am, and now, with these new restrictions he won’t try to find out. I hope so. 

I feel like such a coward, but at the same time, somehow my body seems to thank me for this decision. Maybe this is what the waiter was saying with that glimmer in his eye. He was telling me to leave?

It seems ridiculous to be grateful for a lockdown. But I can’t imagine how I could have escaped without it. 

I’ll have to burn these pages too. Not because he could find them. Because of course, now he can’t. But, because I’m scared of myself if I find them. I don’t think I could bear to read this story just yet. 

Thank you for hearing me, 

Yours ,

Sophia.