Page 94 of Versions Of Us

“No,” she’d replied quietly.

“Who was that guy?” I didn’t expect her to give me an honest answer, so I was surprised when she told me exactly what I had already assumed.

“He’s my boyfriend.”

“No offence, but he didn’t sound like he was being a good boyfriend.”

I didn’t want to overstep but I needed her to know that she could do better. That the way she was being treated was not normal.

“I know,” she had struck back. Louder. Angrier. Then her tone softened as she’d added, “I’m leaving him.”

“When?” I knew better than to push her too hard, but I couldn’t bear the thought of her spending another second with that waste of space.

“When I can, okay?” she retaliated.

“What does that mean?” I asked. “Em, does he have something over you?”

I remember wondering what her leaving this guy could possibly be dependent on. But she didn’t answer me, instead withdrawing from the conversation, my ears filled with nothing but her shaky breath as it left her lungs in tremors.

“Does he hurt you?” I had dared to ask.

“Sometimes,” she had admitted.

My heart had ached hearing her confession. I was rendered helpless, unable to be her saviour, knowing that unless she spoke up about his abuse it was going to keep happening. “You need to call the police.”

“It’s not that simple,” she had argued.

“It can be.”

“I have nowhere to go.” Her sobs had broken me.

“But you do have someone looking out for you?” I asked, remembering what she had said earlier.

“I did,” she whimpered.

“You did?” I’d asked, echoing her words.

“I did. But he’s gone.”

“Where did he go?” I demanded, my knuckles turning white with the strong grip I had on the phone receiver.

“I can’t say.”

“Okay,” I sigh.

I had come to know when I could push and when I needed to leave well enough alone. I knew that if I pushed too hard, she’d hang up and I potentially wouldn’t hear from her for another few weeks. I needed to be the person she could trust. The one that always had her back.

“He’s coming back for me though. I know he is.” Her voice had risen an octave, an indication of the belief she still had in this person that she’d put all of her faith in.

“How do you know?”

“Dum spiro spero, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember,” I’d said, the hint of a smile touching my lips as I recalled one of our earlier conversations. Of when she’d asked me how I got through my darkest days.

While I breath, I hope.

She believed that this person was coming back to save her. For her sake, I’d hoped she was right.

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