A Broken Body that Feasts on Fruit

Once the seaside cash ran out I had to create a new plan. Time is money and I didn’t possess the latter to be able to indulge in the cloying solitary path towards healing any longer. Infected by hatred and regret, I sickened myself with sadness every time I looked in the mirror. Seeking help in a moment of weakness I was offered pills that I didn’t take and well meaning phone calls that I didn’t answer.

I battled with grief that I deserved and no one share it with. I’d run away. Turned my back on my family. However, which is worse? Living in mental pain and vomiting that pain for all to see and feed on or living in cavernous silence where I might as well not exist? So I stopped existing. Life felt unnecessarily complicated so I vowed to untangle it.

I started to craft an entrance into a new life. A life where I could put on the best of shows. I created a newer, slicker, version of me. I moved to the city and landed a job at a bank. If this new life was to work I needed to make a good impression. I vowed to be noticed.

He was my first boss. I attracted his attention and it felt good.

During my first week, I was always the last to leave as I had nothing and no one to return home to. I lived in squalor, a dingy flat above a shop that smelled of newspapers and constantly vibrated with a jingling bell that started at 5am. The ceilings were high, yellowing with decades of neglect, the toilet barely flushed, the green sink clogged and the oven overheated. The five bar fire was the only heat and, no matter how hard I turned them, the taps leaked with a persistent drip.

After the main staff horde had left I napped at my desk. When that drew the wrong type of attention, I found a long padded bench in a small storage cupboard and, once the door was closed, lay silent and alone. I dreamt of a place ablaze with sound and smell, light and happiness and even out of sight I’d hear distant idle chatter as the office came to a close. I’d leave before lock up, sneak out unnoticed via the fire escape and walk the streets. I found a park, and would sit drinking cheap cider from a paper bag on a bench riddled with bird droppings.

On a cold winter night I had fallen asleep before closing the door, my body and brain exhausted. I dreamt of flying, and as my eyes flickered I felt the nerves in my body pulse as my world tilted and attempted to right itself.

He touched my shoulder with an authoritative caress. I sensed pressure followed by a warm glow and my guard immediately dropped. He enquired about my presence with a careful and easy smile, his words sounded safe, a dangled promise of a ‘I won’t tell’. Facing up to the ceiling, I spotted flashes of colour as I took in his short brown hair, neatly trimmed beard and piercing brown eyes. Shirt collar gently undone, his tie hung loosely, grazing my arms as he reached over and gently moved the hair from my face. His strong hands cradled my tiny neck and as he gripped my sagging shoulders to sit me upright, my spine cracked.

He looked into my eyes. I saw love and desire. A guttural roar split through me as my need to be held was fired to attention. A wave of electricity surged through every muscle. A tsunami of emotion released from the shackles of a seaside hiding place.

This time would be different. This time would be comforting. This time would be like staring into the blazing sun.

Tears engulfed my eyeballs. I threw the chains of sorrow aside and left my sadness unattended to wither and die. I gripped his hand and he smiled. I was once again under the spell of love. … A few months later, after a banking conference, he followed me back to my hotel room. He gestured in winking silence for me to hand over my room key so he could open the door. I flinched as he locked it behind him, kissing the plastic rectangle before slipping it into his pocket. He rolled out his shoulders and smacked his lips, his leery stare piercing my skin. He walked over to the double bed, gesturing for me to sit beside him.

A heavy red throw with faded gold stripes covered the bottom of the bed. My makeup lay scattered on the table, a lonely brush visible on the carpet. An orange light from a tall corner lamp cast a moody glow around the tiny room. Heavy floor to ceiling curtains framed the only window. A receipt from my new dress lay scrunched next to the bin. A wire from the hairdryer tangled with the table leg.

His dark eyes were half closed, reflecting sweat on his upper lip. His wedding ring and watch caught the light and haloed his neat brown hair. He caressed the dirty stripes with sweaty palms and a serious insistent smile.

I shook my head.

He shrugged and, with an eye roll and a frustrated sigh, he ordered me to close my eyes. I squinted through a haze of cheap champagne. I was standing behind the door next to a floor length mirror, my feet out of my shoes. Opposite the bed, a tall bookcase stood to attention next to a dark wooden desk.

I thought about running but knew I wouldn’t get away. I thought about jumping — the glass window seemed impenetrable.

The bed creaked with his weight as he moved and approached me. He shrugged off his tuxedo jacket and threw it onto the floor, his pink shirt half untucked with tails hanging over black trousers and a bowtie that hung from his stubble neck. He methodically undid his shirt cuffs and rolled the sleeves to his elbows, his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

My floor length dress was black and lace, with three white daisies across the bust, my legs bare and my underwear cheap. My newly dyed blonde hair was scraped into an elegant bun that had now loosened.

I nodded to my reflection in the mirror and mouthed a silent apology.

His hands grabbed my neck, his mouth adding bites down my arms. My head swam with fear and I staggered sideways under his grip.

I’ve got you, you’re mine now.

With a sudden push, I toppled backwards toward the bed, my body landing awkwardly. An automatic tear ran down my right cheek as I bit the inside of my mouth and tasted blood.

He sneered, his face looming over me as he grabbed my shoulder and moved his hand down my body grabbing at lace and peeling me bare.

You wanna know something? You’re the talk of the branch... Quiet, moody and mysterious. Everyone wants to know what it’s going to take to wipe the pathetic look off the new girl’s face. I’ve seen you, perfecting that ‘little girl lost look’ in private. You know exactly what you’re doing. You’re not daft are you? You’ve been flirting with me for months, with those haunting ‘come fuck me’ eyes of yours. Do you know how good this can be for you… if you don’t make a fuss? Actually, you should be thanking me, I’m giving you exactly what you want. But what I want to know is if you’ll beg or if you’ll moan with gratitude? Do you hear me? I’m well respected. I can change your life.

He moved on top of me, pinning me with his muscly thighs as I felt the weight of his belt buckle hit my skin. He grabbed my hands that I’d automatically moved to the lower part of my body to protect the invasion and pinned them to the stripes on the bed so that my blonde hair now mingled with the gold. I swallowed the dripping alcohol sweat from his brow as his stubble ripped at the skin on my shoulders. I went to move my feet, to wobble and thrust myself to a stand but his shins restricted my movements and my dress tore.

He spat in my face, told me to hold still as his hand penetrated me. I gasped and, with the sticky taste of his saliva, said no which made him smile. His head moved my thighs apart, headbutting my knees as he grabbed at my bare breasts and squeezed. I could feel his breath as he spat once more and then thrust himself towards me and I cried in agony.

‘No’ and ‘stop’ left my mouth in whispers. The whispers didn’t matter, drowned out by the pants and moans as he called me the worst of names, spitting and slobbering in my face and groin again and again. I tasted stupidity through retching bile and prayed for it to be over. The last thing I saw as I closed my eyes were the dirty gold stripes of the bedspread, my face chafing against them with every thrust. I didn’t fight. I didn’t see the point. I’d already done enough for fighting to be pointless.

As the months went on, he terrorised me in private whilst bigging me up in public. I was promoted suddenly and without warning, to a job I didn’t have a clue about in a department I’d barely come into contact with. He gave me people responsibility when I hadn’t been a manager. He gave me a budget to manage when I didn’t know what to do with it. He continued to request my gratitude in the form of illicit trips to the storage cupboard and late night meetings in his office.

I became comfortable with my new routine, almost liked it, knew when to pretend and when to escape from myself and stopped caring about the way he treated me.

It was when I contracted an infection that I became bold. I attempted a confrontation. He never wore protection. I was worried I was in danger. I had already aborted one child.

We sat on opposite sides of a white boardroom table just before closing. The spotlights above remained in darkness as the last shards of early evening sun peered in through the floor to ceiling windows. Dressed in a tight grey suit with my back to a wall of glass, I sweated in my white shirt as I snapped an elastic band that I’d started wearing around my wrist.

He clenched his fists, alternatively tapping them on the table in front of his red corporate tie. I sat up in my chair as he uncurled his right hand and pointed towards my clammy body, my stomach in knots as I resisted the temptation to vomit. The room temperature dropped as I imagined him spitting in my face. The hum of a closing office picked up pace behind me.

Grow up. It’s over. You hear me behind those baby blues? It was good while it lasted, but it’s not worth the aggravation. I’ll move you. You can go somewhere nice. Head Office perhaps? Just away from here. I’ll figure something out. I’ll text you. But don’t text back. You hear me? It’s over. You need to forget it ever happened. In fact, there’s a good idea. It didn’t happen. You made it up. Nothing to finish as nothing happened. Now run along. I’ll be in touch.

I’ve buried the part of me that gives a shit about that time. I observe her occasionally as she chokes underground surrounded by the crawling insect of shame. She inhales wet leaves and picks dried soil from under her fingernails. She tries to roll free, twigs poking out of her mottled hair as the rips in her clothes let in rain and soak her flimsy bones. Her matted eyes are devoid of sunlight, her lips chapped and bleeding. Congealed saliva gathers under her sagging chin, her crevices caked with dirt.

She screams sounds that will never be heard, cries sobs that will never be seen and reaches out hands that will never be held. Sometimes I hear her. Sometimes I feed her grapes.

I imagine it’s dark in that place, for a broken body that feasts on fruit.