Supplemental Post: An Evening Out

Warning: I am posting about my experiences of domestic abuse in the hope that it will help others to a greater understanding of what goes through a victim's mind when these things happen. And in the hopes that, by describing my experiences, I can help shift the stigma and provide support to those still in abusive situations to know that others have been through this and survived, that they are not alone, and that it is not about them - it is about an abusive situation that hopefully they can move away from when they are ready to do so. 

***

I know how to handle waves.

We live on the beach in the summer, my mum, my sister and me. Building sandcastles, eating ice-creams, crabbing.

We swim in the sea long after the holiday season is over. Once it starts to get cold outside, there’s only one option. You have to submerge yourself in the water as soon as possible, and stay there.

“Warmer in than out,” we all say.

And when a big wave comes, my Dad has taught us the drill. We know that the worst thing you can do is let it catch you unawares. You face it head on. When you see its crest, you dive straight into it, swim through it, stay beneath the water until you know it has passed.

But sometimes you pick a wave that’s too big. When you dive under, you get trapped in its roll, its power unstoppable. You end up tumbling in the sand, over and over, coughing up seawater, and feeling the sting as it pours out of your nose.

It’s days like that when you realise that you should never have stepped into the water in the first place.

***

It’s the height of summer and I arrange a night out with some friends of mine, let’s call them Josh and Lucy.

I guess I know that He doesn’t really like Josh, but He and Lucy seem to see life in the same way, to share a connection, and a sense of humour. I think it will be enough to assure us a fun evening. But when it comes to the night, He is reticent.

We are late setting off but I stay positive, calm. On the bus, I put my hand proudly on His knee, smiling, breathing in the scent of his aftershave in the air. He looks straight ahead, a flat expression on his face, his body motionless.

We’re half-way there when He utters his first words for the journey.

“I think I’ve left the side gate open, I’m going to have to go back.”

***

And so it’s time to make a disclosure, this time about Him rather than me. He is obsessed with security. At times, it borders on the OCD, but most of the time it’s just another quirk, a further reason to love Him.

As part of the works we have done on the house, we have a full alarm system installed, plus a giant-sized, double-locked side gate, which prevents access to the alleyway along the side of the house. We hang new fire doors on every room in the house, and He decides that each should have a lock on it.  Any time we leave the house for more than a night, He walks round the house before we leave, locking every single door with its separate key, jangling the bunch like a jailor. He is the one to lock the front door and set the alarm whenever we go out. He feels more comfortable that way.

Despite all of this, He still sleeps with a metal bar under his side of the bed.

***

Although we’re late, we get off our outbound bus and head back home.

It’s after He’s checked the gate, while we’re standing again at the bus stop outside our house, that I can’t help myself.

“I knew it would be locked,” I say, with a false smirk on my face, making light, pretending that I am simply finding it endearing. But He sees straight through the veneer. 

“Don’t you fucking speak to me like that,” he spits. “One more word out of your mouth and I turn around and I’m back in that house, you understand?”

His body tenses. I do nothing, say nothing.

“You understand?“ he repeats. “You think you can do that?”

My body is frozen and yet I force my muscles to nod.

“You f*cking answer me or I’m turning right round and walking back into that house,” he shouts.

“No, please don’t do that,” I beg. “I’m sorry, we’ll have a good evening.”

Something about the exchange cuts straight through me. But it’s the faces of the young couple at the bus stop I remember. Her features tight like those of a wild animal on high alert. His arm around her, protecting, but still his expression fixed, head turned away, in submission. 

When the bus arrives, we get on it. The couple at the bus stop stay where they are, only daring to sneak a glance once the bus has started to pull away.

We trundle and rumble back towards central London in silence. I let my mind wander, trying to force-feed it with positive propaganda before I have to speak again. An idyllic picture enters my head. An emerald green meadow, dew glistening on the blades of grass, bright sunshine sparkling off the deep blue stream that cuts across its middle. A roe deer with a white tail, its slim neck extended down, drinking. 

It’s too perfect , too innocent. I know that it’s just waiting for a man with a large shotgun to streak into the scene and blow it to pieces. But at the same time, that seems too obvious.

***

The evening is unremarkable, save that He flirts openly with the waitress. It’s as if I don’t exist but I’m not going to challenge it. Josh and Lucy clock it but say nothing, which suits me.

He and I carry on drinking when we get home. It’s becoming a well-worn routine. But that night, with each drink, I’m gaining in confidence, becoming more indignant.

“I want to see a picture of that girl you slept with after we were together,” I tell him. “That ex.”

“Why?” he questions. “How is that going to help?”

“Because I need to see what she looks like,” I say, bolstered by a cocktail of wines and spirits.

“Otherwise, I just walk around thinking that everybody is her,” I continue. “Like the waitress tonight, or somebody I pass in the tube. I think that they could be her, and it rips me apart.”

And so he goes upstairs and gets out his photo albums. We sit on the sofa and we start at the beginning, right back to when his boy was a baby. He’s energised, in his element as he walks me through the pictures.

There are loads of them. Girls that He’s never even told me about but that now he describes, how He met them, how long he was with them, why they split up. He’s not insensitive about it, He keeps it factual, doesn’t wax lyrical. If anything, He’s dismissive of them. I feel like it’s helping. Until we get to the end of the albums.

“You’re kidding,” I say. “Where’s the other one?”

“What other one?” He asks, and looks at me like he’s truly puzzled.

“The one with her in it,” I say.

I’m expecting Him to produce it magically out of nowhere, but that’s not what he does.

“With who in it?” He looks at me blankly, but I’m not buying.

“So let me get this straight,” I fire at Him. “I ask to see her, and you take me through everyone else, I have to listen to all this sh*t about all these other girls that I didn’t even know about, but I still don’t get to see a picture of her, which is what I asked for all along?”

“I don’t have any pictures of her,” He replies.

 “Why then?” I ask. “Why did we just do this? Why?”

He shrugs.

“I didn’t realise what you were looking for.”

And I know I am not going crazy. I remember how it started, and I know what He has just done.

I lean in towards him calmly and deposit the contents of my drink over His head.

The image of the deer and its pretty little neck is fleeting, as my sub-conscious registers it instantly in the base of my stomach. The crest of the wave approaching. And the realisation that I have made a gross miscalculation.