Domestic Bliss

TRIGGER WARNING : This story contains descriptions of domestic abuse,in all its forms,from the beginning and throughout.

February 12

Another day wearing sunglasses to the supermarket.The staff must think me pretentious,with delusions of being a movie star…or perhaps they see me for exactly what I am.

I don’t know how much longer I can put up with this…is the lie I tell myself every day of my life.I know I’ll put up with this until the day one of us is carried out in a box.

February 14

Valentine’s Day! It was impossible to move for the many-hued flowers which filled every room in the house and as for those chocolates and vintage wines,simply divine.

Of course not,but he was so drunk he fell asleep the moment he flopped on the bed so I experienced a night relatively free of pain and I even managed a couple of hours uninterrupted slumber.

February 15

I paid today for yesterday’s relative tranquility.He blamed his hangover on me.How this could be my fault I don’t know,but asking the question would not have improved my situation.

I lay beneath him as he claimed his spousal rights.I don’t know where he learned that phrase,but I’m sure he doesn’t know what it means.He climbed off me,showered,dressed and left the house without saying a word or eating the breakfast I’d made for him.I expect to be punished for wasting food.

February 19

It’s becoming harder to find anything new to write.He goes to work at the identical time every day,adjourns to the pub immediately afterwards and stumbles home once his drinking companions have tired of him.I have to be awake and available to him.It’s a blessed relief when he’s too inebriated to perform.

Even the solace of those times when he’s absent from the house paled long ago.If only I was allowed a job,a friend.If I’d been permitted to have children…

It had seemed such a mundane dream to have a baby,especially a daughter.I’d have loved her like no one had ever been loved.But how could I have brought a girl into his house? Then again,she might have sparked me back to life,instilled a willingness to fight,to escape.

It wasn’t to be,it never will be.I shouldn’t torture myself.I have him for that.

February 26

Shopping day! Allowed out of the house for two hours.I’ll dare myself to stay longer,to sit on a park bench,to walk along the promenade allowing the sea breeze to kiss my face.Of course,I won’t.He’d find out.I don’t know how,but he would.

Still,it’s a fleeting thrill to have money in my pocket.It’s the bare minimum for a fortnight’s provisions and every penny will have to be accounted for,but it allows me the tiniest illusion of freedom.

February 27

I had to be punished when the change from yesterday’s shopping came up fifty pence short.I found the offending coin in the pocket of my cardigan,but that merely confirmed his suspicion I was hoarding money to fund my escape.

“I’d get one helluva fucking long way on fifty pence!” I said. 

Oh,how I wish I had.It would have made the beating almost tolerable.

Instead,I lay bleeding on the living room floor for hours after he’d left for work.I said my daily prayer that he’d have an accident leaving him dead or,at least,paralysed,although I long ago came to the conclusion that no one was listening.

I don’t know how much longer…

March 3

How I’m dreading this evening…he’s taking me out!

This is something he’d usually do anything to avoid,but it’s a works “do” and all spouses are expected to attend.I know my best behaviour won’t be enough,I’ll have to go light years beyond to avoid the most savage retribution.

I can’t spend too long writing today,I have so much to do.Actually,I have very little to do,but it has to be done to perfection.The only problem is I don’t know what today’s definition of perfection will be.

I have to fix my hair in a way that is “respectable but not showy”.It would help if I was allowed to visit a hairdresser or if I knew what that even meant!

And then I have to find an outfit in my pitiful wardrobe - not one item of which has been fashionable for at least two decades - that won’t make me appear risibly dowdy or unacceptably attractive.Very little danger of the latter.

Once I’ve sorted my “look” I have to focus on my demeanour.Speak when spoken to,be friendly but not familiar and laugh if someone makes a joke,but not too enthusiastically and only at the “right” jokes.I’d describe it as a minefield,but negotiating a minefield would be a picnic on the beach compared to a night out with him.

I’ve resigned myself to being in no fit state to write anything tomorrow.

March 4

I can’t believe it went so well! The evening passed at a funereal pace and I feared a gaffe was lurking around every corner awaiting the chance to leap out and scupper me.

We arrived home and I readied myself for a point by point critique of my performance,but he went to bed without laying a hand,or any other part of his anatomy,on me.If I’m not mistaken he even muttered “goodnight” under his breath.

I woke up knowing I still wasn’t in the clear,there was always the chance that once he’d had time to ruminate on the previous night’s event he’d find some deficiencies in my conduct.But no,he left for the office without saying a word.He even took a bite from the toast I’d made him.

I sat in the kitchen for fully one hour basking in relief until the realisation struck me like a juggernaut - he’s right,I am pathetic.Here I was,the happiest I’d been in months and all because the person who’s supposed to love me more than anyone in the world,the one person allowed to love me,hadn't pummelled me into oblivion.Is that genuinely the summit of my ambition? I truly am worthless.

March 11

Prior to yesterday,I’d had a few days of nothing worse than a raised voice and a light slap so had allowed a sense of complacency to attach itself.I’m so stupid.

I’d left it a tad late to take the rubbish to the recycling bin,but still had time to dispose of it before he arrived home.I’d have managed it too had that idiot from two doors down not tried to engage me in conversation about neighbourhood watch or the parking situation or some other nonsense.I could have cried when I saw his car pulling up…I’m not entirely sure I didn’t.

His tone,speaking with our neighbour,was so reasonable,laced with bonhomie.His words to me were less gentle and accompanied by a punch that left me unconscious in the hall.It was the first of many.

I won’t document what else he did to me,I’d never want to read it back and it’s unlikely I’ll ever forget.

I don’t know how much longer…

March 14

This could be the last entry for a while…or,more probably,ever.

I’ve barely seen him for the past couple of days.Perhaps he feels ashamed of what he did to me.Yeah,that seems likely! Or maybe he’s got himself another woman.I hope not.I can’t imagine hating anyone so much that I’d wish his attention to fall upon them.

He turned up a sliver after six,expecting his dinner to be on the table.I’d been in no hurry as nine days out of ten he goes straight from work to the pub and I end up throwing good food in the bin for which,it goes without saying,I get the blame.

I don’t know if anyone but me will ever read this and if you do you probably won’t believe me,but nine of the next ten minutes are a haze to me.

I was carving the chicken with our one sharp knife in my right hand,attempting to extract as much meat as possible from a pitifully small bird.He stood to my left,berating me for the tardiness in preparing his meal and questioning how exactly had I wasted the rest of my day.I swung my right arm upwards and with all the force I could muster.The blade became embedded in his neck.He let out no sound,but had the most peculiar look on his face,not fear or anger,but rather immense disappointment.

And that’s where things go blank.When I came back to the world I was sitting at the kitchen table gazing down at this lifeless thing.I must have stabbed him repeatedly and in a frenzy because he was scarcely recognisable as human (quite appropriate,I think).I was drenched and the kitchen floor awash with blood.

I felt no trepidation for my future,merely a sadness that something as insignificant as this sack of flesh at my feet had been allowed to drain me of my best years,of any prospect of happiness.I know I’ll be going to prison,but even that must be better than an existence with him.Who knows,maybe they’ll consider my ordeal as mitigation and take pity on me.What a laughable notion,when has anybody ever taken pity on me?

I’d need a phone to notify the police,but of course I’ve never been permitted one of my own and there’s no landline in the house so I’ll have to use his.I retrieved it from what was left of his body and manipulated his fingerprint so as to unlock it.I must admit to feeling a certain pride that I was able to think so clearly.

Reaching into his pocket and utilising the correct digit to access the phone was a nerve wracking manoeuvre,not because I’m squeamish - the sang froid with which I was handling the presence of so much blood continues to surprise me.No,he’d forced me to endure so many horror movies that I quite anticipated the bad guy coming back to life to launch one final post mortem assault on me.

Seated back at the table,once I’d figured out how the phone actually worked,I was ready to dial in my confession until a whim took me.Music! Oh how,I’ve missed music.I was surely entitled to at least a couple of songs.Ridiculous though it seems,I struggled to remember who I used to enjoy.Finally I settled on Van Morrison and for the first time in my life I was utilizing Youtube.Three times I listened to Tupelo Honey and three times it brought me to tears.

And this,I think, is where I should close the book on this chapter of my life…quite literally.This diary has been a grand companion to me,but now it must be placed in the drawer.Who knows,maybe there’ll be a sequel,a prison version,but for the present I’ll treat myself to a couple more tunes before I call the authorities.Or perhaps I’ll wait until morning…the thing on the floor isn’t going anywhere.