Page 49 of In Control

Sometimes I thinkfate has a truly fucked-up sense of humour, because when I arrive home that evening, there’s a white envelope with my name scrawled across it in black ink. For barely a second, I wonder if that arsehole professor has had a change of heart and returned my underwear. I’d had to make a mad dash into town to pick up a pair of knickers before a meeting with my supervisor. No way was I going to risk flashing the poor man and giving him a flipping heart attack.

But as I bend down to pick up the envelope, I realise I’m wrong. I flinch, my hand springing away from the evil thing. I recognise that handwriting. I know it well. I just haven't seen it in a long time. I thought that was all behind me.

But fate seems to be determined to remind me that there’s more than one man out there trying to control my life.

I kick off my shoes and hang up my key all the time eyeing the envelope sitting there innocently on the mat.

I should throw it straight in the bin. That would be the sensible thing to do. But when have I ever stuck to sensible?

Instead, I feed Newton and brew myself a strong cup of tea before taking the envelope over to the sofa. Curling up on the seat, I take several long sips of tea, turning the envelope over and over in my hands. Newton jumps up to join me, sniffing at the envelope before lying down beside me.

I stare at the envelope, then tear the goddamn thing open.

I shake the note out and it falls in my lap, the same black-inked writing marching across the page.

Gingerly, I unfold it and scan straight to the end.

It’s him.

Fuck.

He’s back.

I thought by avoiding him …

I thought he’d moved on …

I take another long gulp of the tea.

Should I even read the letter? I know what will be in it. The same vitriol. The same name calling. The same insistence that I belong to him and no one else.

Perhaps this time the letter will be different though.

I take another gulp of tea, rest my cup on the sideboard, and scan the words.

Several jump out at me.

Whore.

Bitch.

Slag.

All those top hits. So fucking original.

I roll my eyes hard, and keep reading.

I slow down when I reach the end. He knows. He knows about my dalliance with this pack and he wants it to stop.

Oh look, another man, telling me what I can and can’t do?

Is that what’s prompted him to get in touch again after all this time?

I scrunch the letter into a ball and throw it across the room, Newton lifting his head to watch it fall.

At first, I told nobody about these letters back when they started two years ago. Not Rosie. Not my mum. Not my brother. Not anyone.

Because how the hell would I explain this all anyway? And it’s only ever been letters. If it were anything more, then I’d go to the authorities. Not that it would do any good. Whose side would they take? His: an older man with influence and power? Or mine?

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