Counting

**trigger warning. Abuse**

Outside seems so peaceful. The way the rain hits the pavement and disappears into the steady stream that's now formed in the space between the path and road. I watch from my window as the water flows so gracefully along the dark grey stone, gently washing away any sins left behind by the hoards of daytime commuters. I live on a fairly busy main road. I use hate it when I was younger, but now I'm thankful for the noise and constant hustle and bustle of the crowds. It's night time now, only the rain and a few people every now and then. The rain keeps me occupied, I find comfort in everything about it. The smell, the sound, the sight. A sensory overload for someone like me.

I guess I had to find love in the small things in life, things that most people take for granted, it's all I have.

The door flings open, making a loud twanging sound as it bounces off the wall and swings back into the figure looming in the doorway. I cringe and grip the side of the mattress in an automatic reflex. Then my hand relaxes and I take a deep breath. Focusing again on the rain outside as it joins the stream and gushes away, out of sight. Wishing I could do the same thing. Jealous of its freedom.

It use to feel like an eternity. Like a never ending nightmare. The kind of nightmare that you wake from only to realise you're still smack bang in the middle of it. Each time you wake only upping the anti and throwing you back in to hell once more.

Now I'm pretty much a pro at making it seem like seconds. Focusing on the view from my window is a recent development though. I use to count the number of objects in my room by colour. Twenty one red. Five blue, eight yellow (eleven if you count the tiny flecks that adorn my curtains) and five black. There's more but I'm tired of counting colours now. I started to find myself back in the nightmare, needed to change it up. And fast.

The figure finally leaves and the rain ceases. I peel my locked fingers from the duvet and sit up. My feet dangle a few inches above the floorboards, I shuffle forward and feel my feet meet the smooth wood. I bend my head back slightly, pushing my stomach forward to feel my back crack. The clock reads 3.40am. At least I'm free again tonight. I half smile at the blinking red numbers.

**

I stare at the couple across the street, they're sat at the bus stop, arms linked and eyes locked. Laughing in unison and softly parading their love for all to see. I can't hear them from way up here but I can almost imagine the conversation, as I often tend to do. She's laughing at his goofy jokes and he's laughing because she still finds him funny. She knows he's not everyones cuppa tea but he's exactly her type of brew, and she couldn't imagine her life with anyone else. The mole on his upper lip, still as sexy to her as ever. Gently kissing it as he begins to put the world to rights again. I bet their love is free and pure. The way she sinks in to his touch and never falters to show her affection back. I sigh. The door creaks open. I hate when it creaks. That usually means one thing. He's sober.

I take a deep breath. Focus on the couple again. Their mouths ping ponging movements. Her then him, him, then her. The bus slides into view and a few seconds later their gone. Off into the night. Maybe the cinema or a nice restaurant for dinner and drinks. I'm slightly annoyed they left so soon, especially when it's a sober night. Things usually take longer, or at least it feels that way. He talks more and lingers in ways he doesn't do when he's drunk. Delicate almost. I hate it. Another bus pulls in and sits there for a few moments. I scan the windows and pick my person. Ah, nice. A punk rocker with a gravity defying mohawk, pink and green spikes protruding from her otherwise shaven head. Her ears are mostly silver, too many piercings to count but I try anyway. Counting is always effective to forget. Six in her ear that I have a view of. I guess it's the same on the other side. Twelve. Two rings hang from her lower lip. Fourteen. I think I can see a bar in her nose too. Fifteen. The bus pulls away. I frantically search the busy streets for more distractions. Suddenly a black shadow flaps past the window, followed by another. Two birds. I spot a small boy riding his bike where the makeshift stream was flowing the night before. Now just a road again, filled with litter and traffic. A subtle soft grey colour instead of the wet noir it had turned under the rains touch. I miss the rain. The boy peddles lazily, letting the slight decline move the bike for him. Arms hanging down by his sides, no need for steering now. He looks peaceful. Like he's heading home from the best day of his life. To be greeted by the smell of his mothers baked bread and questions about his day. Which he will most likely ignore as he thumps upstairs to wash the smell of todays antics off and feel the bliss of his trusty slippers beneath his feet. A long but satisfying day with his friends. He reaches the bottom of the hill and slaps one hand on the handlebar and swings it to the right. Then peddles off, out of sight. Three cars are parked across the street, seven are stationed at the traffic lights at the top of the hill. Waiting impatiently as an old lady makes her way across, shuffling as fast as she can, stopping to check the status of the lights every so often. Amber. Green. And go. Twenty four cars later and only five colours, its over. Finally. The door clicks shut. It hurts as I prise my fingers from the edge of the bed. It's another way to get through the way my body rejects the nightmare, an automatic reflex when I feel sick but can't be. A version of gritting my teeth or curling my toes. I swing round to sit on the edge of the bed.

I check the clock, still early. 5.46pm. Not safe. My shoulders deflate and I hang my head. Falling back onto the bed and staring at the ceiling. He will be back.

**

Eleven people wearing red tops. It's been rather boring tonight. Reduced to counting clothing colours, it's tedious but it's all I have right now. I haven't checked the clock yet but I can tell it's early hours. Empty streets and there's been no buses for a while now. No rain tonight either, a shame. I concentrate on the sound of the muffled television instead, which is blaring loudly downstairs. I wonder what's playing and if I've seen it before. I'm not allowed to watch TV anymore. He says it's bad for me. Ever since mum died, and her love got replaced with a bottle of Jack and a packet of Windsor blue, everything was bad for me apparently. Except the one thing that truly was bad for me. Ironic eh.

4.15am. It's over.

**

I'm deep into the backstory of a group of young teens that are gathered around the bus shelter. A couple of the boys desperately seeking the girls attention. One playfully whips one of the girls with their strawberry laces and pretends to look away when they search for the culprit. All innocent. Pure. Beautiful. I use to love strawberry laces. My mouth waters at the thought and I quickly try to distract myself from the sugary goodness. I'm suddenly angry. I feel it building within my body like an uncontrollable fire, crackling as it swallows up the oxygen and destroys everything in its path. Mum use to always buy me sweets after school. It was the only time she could sneak them in without dad noticing. He always liked to control what we ate, but it's worse now she's not here. She use to wink at me as she pulled an assortment of goodies from her pocket and say 'Well I gotta buy sweeties for my sweetie, don't I' It was our little secret. Our only time to let go and smile as if that moment was the way we had always lived. Care free. Mum ate them too sometimes but her hand would shake with fear whenever she did. Making us stick to the back streets incase dad or someone he knew would drive by and expose our lie. I didn't understand back then why she didn't leave him. She would promise me every few months that we would. 'One day baby, I promise' she would whisper. 'Mama has to make sure it's safe, ok' I use to plead her to take us far away. Somewhere we could eat sweets all day long and sing songs. Eat pancakes for dinner, like the time dad worked away for that summer. Best summer ever. It was the worst autumn we had though and every season that followed but I'll never forget that summer. Mum didn't shake the entire time and her face was finally free of the purple and blue hues she'd carried most of my life. She was even more beautiful that summer. The more I think about my mum the more the fire blazes within me. My grip gets tighter and tighter. I push my fingers deeper into the surface they are clasping and a scream bursts up through my gut and forces it way out of my mouth.

"Three fucking years, five bastard months and fourteen long days!" I scream without permission. Tears streaming. My grip keeps getting tighter.

"One thousand, five hundred and ninety two nightmares!" Hollering like a warrior marching into battle. All the while squeezing with every fibre of my being. Tighter.

"No more counting! No more counting! No more...fucking...counting!" I feel a faint crack beneath my hands. My eyes flick from the window where they had glazed over thinking about mum, and are now peering at the monster on top of me. His eyes bulging and bloodshot. My hands nestled around his neck, almost embedded in his flesh. His body falls limp and I recoil in shock as I realise what I've done. He rolls off the bed and smacks into the hard wood floor with force. I stare at my hands.

"No more counting...no more...no...more..." I whisper frantically as my hands start to distort through my blurred vision. I clap my eyes shut and rub them hard. I open them and peer over the side of bed. I can see his torso. No movement. No noise. Silence. My legs seem to spring in to action and I find myself already half way down the stairs, unable to think clearly, breathing heavy. I race to the kitchen. It's changed since I last sat here. The kitchen side littered with bottles and cigarette stains. Mum would be heartbroken. The phone isn't here. "Shit!" I do a slight jog towards the front door and spot it hanging from the wall in the hallway. That's new. I pick it up and my heart skips a beat when I hear the dial tone. It works.

Before my fingers reach the keys I spot a picture frame to my right. Mum and me. My birthday. The one rare year dad let us go bowling and I could have a slice of his cake. I use to think we looked happy but we don't. I force back a cry which somehow transforms into a small weary laugh.

"I'm counting one last time mum, one last time I promise." I punch the numbers with a new feeling I've never felt before. Powerful.

Nine. Nine. Nine.

**

I sit and watch the world go by, waiting for the number thirty bus to pull into the station. I have an aunty out west waiting for me. She offered to pick me up but Ive spent so long counting buses, and wishing I could be one of the lucky numbers on board, it only felt right to make this journey myself. The start of many more. I dig my hand in to the packet on my lap and grab a handful of long red laces. I shove them into my mouth with confidence. Not once checking to see if it is safe first. Enjoying every blissful bite. My pupils sit behind a wall of water and I blink to let it fall.

"We made it mum. We're free."