So whom do I talk to?
My family? Damn, they cut their ties and left me a long time ago. There’s something easier about abandoning flesh and blood than explaining to friends why ‘Jane can’t make it again.’ After a while, people stop asking, and ultimately, stop caring.
Out of sight—out of mind.
The police, you say?
Tried that, and all I got in response was an Oscar-worthy performance from my husband, and a beating to remind me of my ‘place in this house’ once the kind officer had left our property.
You see, my husband is one of the clever ones—most of the time he doesn’t leave marks. The majority of his abuse is verbal. And that shit cuts worse than any knife I’ve ever had penetrate my skin. It’s psychological. He’s a Class A mind-fucker.
Which brings me to today—the day things change.
Today, he pushed too far. And today, I met a neighbor.
You know what? I actually have a neighbor.
• • • • •
“JANE, WHERE the fuck is my grey shirt?”
Next to me in the laundry—dirty. “I’m not sure. Have you checked the wardrobe?”
“Where the fuck do you think I’d look first? In the garage?”
A cool shudder ripples down my spine, despite the muggy, early autumn air. “I’m sorry, baby. Let me find your shirt for you.” I place the iron aside, and switch it off.
“Hurry the fuck up about it, woman. I should have been with the boys ten minutes ago.”
I can feel how vacant my stare is; my eyeballs literally hurt with the strain I place on them to keep the tears at bay. But it’s how I cope. It’s how I push away his rage which radiates through the house like a damn cold draught. He thinks after all these years I still believe he goes out with ‘the boys’. Truth is, the bastard has a mistress he meets up with every Friday.
I’ve seen her.
The woman’s been in our house, in our bed, touched my clothes.
Deandra.
I wonder if she knows what he gets up to at home. Has he raised his hand at her? Or does he reserve all of his ‘true charm’ for me?
My hands wind around the tie I’ve ironed. I’ve placed so many damn stress creases in the thing I toss it back in the ‘to-do’ pile before I turn and pick up the grey shirt. Lifting the fabric to my nose, I check the smell.
Hyacinth.
Fucking Deandra.
Fucking me.
Why I’m so wound up about my abusive husband’s mistress is beyond me, but I sure as hell know I need my head read for it. Stockholm syndrome? No. That would insinuate that I still love the guy.
That ship sailed a long time ago.
I stopped loving Dylan about the same time my mother stopped calling the house. Apparently, I was never there to talk. Strange, considering I’ve never been one to go out on a weeknight. But hey, that Wednesday night card game with ‘the ladies from tennis’ must have escaped my memory—right after Dylan smacked my head into the bench-top for making gravy that wasn’t thick enough.
His cursing echoes from the kitchen, and safe in the knowledge he’s busy getting himself pre-drunk before he scores a hole-in-one with ‘the boys’, I scoot into our room and freshen the shirt up with a squirt of odor eliminator, and a touch of aftershave. His footfalls pound up the hallway right on cue, and I pull the most impressive lie to date as he rounds the bedroom door—a beer in his large hand.
“Here it is, baby. I had it behind the black shirt. No wonder you couldn’t see it. My mistake.”
I pass it off to him, and he gives it the once-over before dropping it on the foot of the bed, and slapping me clean across the cheek with his free hand.
My head reels to the side, but I’ll take a smack in the face for misplacing a shirt in his color-coded wardrobe any day over what he’d do if he realized I hadn’t washed it.
“After all these years, Jane, you’d think you’d get it fucking right by now. I’m pretty sure you’ve only kept your job because you’re fucking the boss.”
Statuesque. That’s how people would describe the way I stand at that moment. Showing no emotion; showing no fear. Blank is safe. Blank doesn’t raise suspicion. Blank doesn’t get me in trouble.
He shrugs the shirt on over his aptly named wife-beater, and picks the beer up from where he placed it on the nightstand. A moisture ring remains, and he scowls at it before snapping his fingers at me.
“Sort that out before it leaves a mark, would you?”
I’m down the hall and back with a cloth in hand before he can draw his next breath. Last time I let his beer mark our furniture he suffocated me until I passed out—twice. Life may be hell, but I don’t fancy reliving that near-death experience again.