Page 24 of The Bones We Break
I fucking cry like I’ve never cried before.
What feels like forever in my mind, is more than likely only a couple of minutes, my head is empty and numb. A barren wasteland of nothingness.
My tears have dried on my skin now, the broken cries have faded to nothing, as if it never happened but the evidence is right there in front of me, mocking me. The open box, its contents spread out over the counter top. The stack of money and phone that my father mentioned in the letter, all laid before me. I don’t know how to feel about any of this, I feel like I’m being torn into pieces, the fragments of myself are broken and jagged ready to slice anyone who comes too close.
I’m hurting, Christ, I’m hurting so much.
Everything about my life has been controlled by others and the one time that I make a decision for myself, I’m led into the arms of a monster. I hate my husband, I hate him with every fibre of my being, and that hate is forcing its way through the love I once had for him, blowing it to pieces, the shards drawing blood. I want to grieve the loss of my parents, the loss of myself but I can’t, I don’t have the time to sit with my feelings any longer, not yet anyway.
Throwing everything back inside the box and pushing thebarstool back under the counter top exactly where I found it, I rush out of the kitchen in a haste, up the stairs and straight into the bedroom, sliding the wardrobe door open before falling to my knees with a hard thud. Putting the box down onto the carpet, I reach inside to the very back of the wardrobe and pull the heavy holdall out with the handle, unzipping the bag I push aside the clothes I’ve packed inside, making a small gap to push the envelope full of money inside then covering it back up with the clothes. My hands shake and tremble the entire time, my nerves are shot to pieces.
I grab the box with the phone inside and open the lid, a basic grey device staring back at me. I don’t remember the last time I saw my phone. Ricky told me that he’d dropped it, the screen completely shattering. He promised me that he would get me another one but that promise never came. I’ve been cut off from the outside world for four years, the thought is excruciating to deal with. Ricky was constantly paranoid that I would tell the girls what was happening to me, and I wish I could.
I miss them so much it brings a physical pain to my chest. I wonder if they’re looking for me? Are they worried about me? I hope so. I could text them from the burner phone but I refuse to bring them into my mess. I could never put them in the firing line of my husband, they’d never survive his wrath. I shake the nonsense thought away and pick up the phone along with the charger and shove them to the bottom of the bag, thinking no more of the matter then zip the bag back up and place it back into the wardrobe at the very back, sliding the door shut.
Lifting the empty cardboard box off the floor I stash it under the bed. Ricky never checks places like that so I’m sure it’ll be safe under there. He’ll smell the aftermath if I try to burn it so that isn’t an option. Rising to my feet, I scan the open space of the room to double check that everything is in its exact place.The photos from our wedding, placed on the dresser, the wash basket is turned the correct way. Every single item has a place and it has to stay that way if I’m to plan this escape correctly. I can’t stay here any longer, I don’t think my mind or body will survive if I do. I’ve bided my time, and now I’m done.
They say it takes courage to leave an abuser but I think it’s more than that. Yes, courage is a strong thing to have but you have to be able to face your fear head on even if it shakes you to your core, you have to face that monster and decide that enough is enough. The fear and terror is enough to drive you into madness, but I no longer accept that path. I’ve had everything ripped away from me. My life, my innocence, my soul, gone in the blink of an eye.
Ricky De Rossi ruined my life. He may have broken me, but I am not beyond repair.
Lifting my hands, I push my hair away from my eyes and run my palms down my face, giving myself a moment of reprieve before checking the time on the alarm clock on the bedside table.5:30pm.Ricky will be home in exactly thirty minutes, half an hour to do this right.
Walking over to the en suite bathroom, I push the door open and flick on the light before opening the cupboards underneath the sink and scouring the contents. Shoving bottles of shampoo and shower gel around until I find what I’m looking for. Reaching my hand into the back I grab hold of the sleeping tablets, I haven’t touched the medication in months but Ricky still believes that I’m taking them. I woke up bruised and sore every time I took them and I began to realise that Ricky was hurting me in my sleep, as well as being awake. The sour memory brings a shiver down my spine. The small yellow bottle tormented me. Closing the small cupboard, I flick off the light and leave the bathroom, turning to check the clock again.5:35pm.The numbers count towards the hour like a doomsday clock. I can’t tell if my world will end or begin when it finally reaches its goal.
Stashing the medication into my trouser pocket and I hurry downstairs to the kitchen. My whole body trembles with nervousness, the pins and needles sensation firing through my bloodstream. My breaths are short and rapid but if I carry on like this I will black out from the lack of oxygen.
My mind is spinning.
I feel as though I’m spinning.
Filling a small glass from the cupboard with cold water, I down the entire thing in one go before wiping my mouth with the back of my hand then I give it a wipe over to dry it, placing it back into the cupboard. Finding the clock on the wall I check the time once again.5:50pm.
“I can do this, Icando this.” I whisper, repeating the mantra to myself hoping to believe the words as I stride over to the liquor cupboard, picking up Ricky’s favourite whiskey, the bottle half empty and a crystal glass before returning to the kitchen island. I place the items on the surface, my shaky fingers cause the amber liquid in the bottle to slosh around the sides. I ponder on whether to pour the drink now but he will question my motives. My plans. I need him to believe that I’m wanting to do something for him, to serve him, as my husband. Not that I’m planning to drug him and run.
Thinking better of it, I decide to leave the whiskey for now until my timing is right. Fidgeting with my fingers, I start to pick at the tender skin around my cuticles, the thin pieces of skin start to bleed from my abuse and I bring my thumb to my mouth to ease the sting. My teeth bite down on my thumb as I jump at the sound of Ricky’s McLaren down the road, the enginerumbling throughout the quiet neighbourhood.
“Shit.” I hiss through my teeth. The silence in the house is suffocating, like a pillow is being pushed over my face as I wait for the deafening noise to come closer until the white headlights of his car beam into the living room before shrouding it into darkness again, the silence returning. I shove all my anxiety and nerves to the bottom of my stomach and lock it tight with a heavy padlock.
The audible clicking of the lock in the door breaks the quietness and in walks the wicked devil in a pristine suit, and my plan begins.
God I need a fucking drink.
My men are dropping like flies under my hands until I find out who intercepted my drop off. There’s a fucking rat in my helm and if I have to poison every rodent until I find my answer, then that’s what I’ll do.
Pushing the stop button on my car’s dashboard, the deep rumbling engine cuts out, leaving just the sound of my own breathing infiltrating the car’s interior. I wrap my hands around the handle on the inside of the door and push it open before stepping out onto the driveway, the gravel crunching under my leather shoes. The dim light of the kitchen travels through the house until a small flicker makes its way out of the front window through the white blinds, the curtains still open.
I see my little wife isn’t where she usually is. I come home to find Annabelle almost always in bed, hiding under the heavy covers, as if that will ever stop me from having access to her.
Walking up the path, I push my key into the lock on the door and turn, it clicks twice before fully granting me access. I’m met with silence as I enter the house, not a single sound can be heard. I half expected to hear Annabelle shuffling aroundbut there’s nothing as I stride further into the house, my soft footsteps cushioned by the plush carpet, following the small warm glow of the kitchen light. The sound changes as my shoes hit the tiled floor causing my wife’s head to snap up. A crystal glass and my bottle of whiskey stand before her on the countertop. I don’t question her motives but still, this isn’t her usual behaviour. Maybe she’s finally realised who owns her, who she truly serves.
Standing still in the doorway of the kitchen, I watch her round the unit, her steps slow until she stands in front of me, her face to my chest. She places her frail, thin hands on the lapels of my suit jacket, tilting her head to look at me.
“Evening, Ricky. How was work?” She asks, her voice the usual small tone. I don’t ever remember a time Annabelle asked me about my work or was ever concerned about it. I brush the thought away and cover her hands with my own.
“It was fine.” I reply, “Nothing for your pretty little head to worry about.” She gives me a small smile, accepting my answer. My wife rises onto her tiptoes before pressing her plump lips to the corner of my mouth, leaving her mark there for a moment. She quickly pulls away and I can’t stop the confused expression from sliding over my face. Thisshe devilis fucking with me. The cocaine that’s still pumping through my system is messing with my head, making me see and believe things.
My wife slides her hands out from underneath mine and drops them to her sides. I match her movements as she begins to speak again.
