Devil You Know(12)

The sports blares on the TV in the living room. He’s unaffected. Nothing about my misery resonates within his empty soul. How can people be so cruel, so callous, so selfish? I make my way across the room, heading for the curtains before I realize what my mind has already decided to do. I pull the fabric aside with two fingers, and stare through the slim gap at the lights next door.

I may as well be watching a foreign movie; I can understand the sentiment in my action, but damned if any of it makes any sense.

I’ve met him once.

He has my dog.

Why does that make me feel this . . . this warmth toward him? What on earth gives me the illusion that he’ll be the one to help me? Sure, I saw kindness in his eyes, a gentle understanding, but haven’t I seen that plenty of times before? And when has kindness ever helped me? A thousand people could care for my situation, feel my pain, but if none of those people have the gall to step in where they aren’t welcome, then I may as well turn my head and forget they looked past the shell to the broken woman barely holding it together.

Shaking my head, I let the heavy drapes fall shut, and scuff the two short steps to our bed. The place I’m supposed to feel most rested. I guess in my unconscious, sleeping state I probably do, but on the other hand, our bed is the place that signifies the most pain when I dare to delve deep enough.

Because every damn day I wake up in this bed with the dread of what the following eighteen hours will bring. And every damn day I don’t do a fucking thing to change it.

I live my groundhog day, wearing my cowardice like a badge of honor.

Pathetic.

Something’s got to change.

If only it were me who had the guts to do it.





THE DAYS fall by, the weeks pass, and before I know it I’ve become Dylan’s wife again. The role fits me like a favorite pair of jeans—comfortable, and reliable.

I left my job.

Dylan felt it gave me too much of an attitude, socializing with other adults he doesn’t know. My recreation time from this hellish prison has been revoked.

I roll with the punches . . . literally. His violence is at an all-time low, or is that a high? Some days I wonder if he knows—if he suspects anything. Some days I’m certain he’s seen me, heard me, but then others he ignores me, as if I’m no more than a ghost in my own home, and I feel that double-edged peace that come with invisibility.

The most magical thing happens one morning. We talk—my neighbor and I.

The first time I hear him call my name I’m positive I’ve truly lost my mind. Dylan is getting ready for work, and I’m dutifully hanging out my second load of washing for the day. Yeah, I do a lot of washing. I wash the sheets every day—it’s easier than going to bed and smelling the stale, sweaty scent of my fear, or Deandra’s perfume all over again.

My hand is raised mid-strike with a peg, when my neighbor calls my name again.

“Jane.”

I look back over my shoulder, shake my head and continue—positive I finally have voices in my head to keep me company.

“Jane.”

It comes through as more of a pronounced “Jenn,” when he hisses it through a knot in the fence paling.

I look at the wood, hopeful it might decide to spell out an answer in the color of its grain as to whether I should reply. Predictably enough, it does nothing to help.

“What?” I whisper back, sure I’m talking to a figment of my imagination.

“Are you hurt anywhere?”

Now, normally a person starting a conversation with that wee stunner would warrant me raising an eyebrow, and wondering about their state of mind. But given he lives next door, and he no doubt hears our close-to-nightly sparring matches, I could forgive him.

“No. Why?”

Nothing. I peg another sheet, stealing glances at the fence every so often.

“I hadn’t seen you in a few days, and it’s been weeks since I took Rocco.”

And? Does he expect me to pop over with scones each Friday?

“What did you expect? I can’t be seen over there.”

“I know.” A long sigh. “I wanted to check on you.”

“Thanks.”

Pegs in my right hand, and a pillow-case in my left, I watch that fence for a solid five minutes before I feel sure enough he’s left. I hang out the rest of the load, running our brief interaction over and over in my head until the words take on a meaning not found in the Oxford Dictionary.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” becomes “Will you survive?”

“I hadn’t seen you,” becomes “I’ve watched for you.”

And “I wanted to check on you,” is the worst of all. My overactive imagination changes that beauty to “One day I’ll take you away from this.”