What Goes Around…

As the keys slipped from his grasp and landed on the parquet floor, Eleanor heaved a sigh of relief; it was over – at last. She smiled, a bittersweet rictus that no one would interpret as demonstrating happiness, and pulled the single sheet up to cover the man's face.

Without a second glance towards the still figure on the metal framed hospital style bed, she turned on her heels and headed towards the door on the far side of the large room. Her footsteps echoed in the high ceilinged room that was devoid of furniture other than the single bed. Each step taking her closer to the freedom she had dreamed of for so long.

And yet, she hesitated, her steps faltering as she walked to the doorway, on the other side of which lay the untapped potential that was her future. Flashes of memory from happier times rose unbidden in her mind; it hadn't all been bad, the early years had in fact been very good, but fifteen years ago something had changed, she'd never found out why, but the loving man she had met and married had, seemingly overnight, turned into a psychotic control freak.

Straightening her spine and taking a deep breath, Eleanor resumed her steady walk. She reached the door and her hand grasped the polished brass knob – this was it, she was leaving this room for the very last time. She had already decided that she would not enter the space again until the undertakers had dealt with him, and the cleaner and house removal people had been. And once it was all clear, and cleaned, she could decide what to do with it…part of her wanted to brick up the door, leave the room to its anger and sadness, leave it to fester and rot just as the former occupant had decayed.

With a determination and strength that belied her small stature, Eleanor flung open the door, slamming it shut behind her. She breathed deeply of the cool clean air in the spacious hallway; air untainted by the sickly stench of illness and decay; air fragranced by the perfume of the flowers in the several large vases positioned around the imposing space. In contrast to the starkness of the room she had just vacated, the hallway was a riot of colour. The gentle Autumn light streaming through the large window illuminated the tiled floor, the richly painted walls hung with beautiful artwork, and the luxurious curtains which had been left long to puddle on the floor.

She felt her spirits rise, this side of the door had become HER domain and she had imprinted herself, her true self, in every carefully chosen piece of furniture, every painting, every design feature and colour choice. He had demanded white, beige, neutrals. Nothing could be out of place. Nothing could mar the cold starkness. No colour was allowed. Eleanor had come to realise that the bleakness of his interior design mirrored the asceticism of his overall persona.

Fifteen years ago he had begun to eschew all comforts, including the physical love of his wife, and demanded that she follow his lifestyle. He'd sold their comfortable home and moved them to a large, austere, Victorian detached house on the edge of a different town, away from friends, family, and social life. He stopped drinking alcohol, would only eat from a limited menu of mainly bland food, and began to abuse Eleanor both physically and emotionally.

She had been so traumatised by the change in the man she had once loved so deeply that at first she displayed little resistance to his new lifestyle, hoping, praying, that it was a kind of temporary insanity, and that he would come back to his senses if she could just hang on in there. But when the occasional temper flare, and what he described as a physical reprimand, descended into him employing a seven cord scourge to regularly whip her – the same scourge he used daily to self-flagellate – she finally realised there was no going back for him.

She tried to leave.

He pursued her and brought her home.

She tried again, and again.

Finally he took to locking every door, every window. The landline was disconnected. Their mobile phones and laptops pulverised by a sledgehammer in one evening of rampant destruction that also saw Eleanor whipped until her back split and bled.

She despaired. Grew thin, gaunt, ghostlike. She saw no means of escape, no hope, no love, no joy, and merely awaited death at his hands.

Until a miracle happened. She found him unconscious one day, lying unmoving on the parquet floor in the large front room, his bloodstained scourge still gripped in his hand. She'd pushed him with her foot, but he hadn't stirred, so she simply left the room.

The following morning she heard guttural moans and discovered he had regained consciousness, yet was unable to move, or talk. He had attempted to shout, to browbeat her, to demand she do something to help – and she had; she'd taken the keys he always carried about his person, and left the house for the first time in several years. She'd found a phone box and dialled 999 before returning to the house to await the ambulance.

The police had arrived at the same time as the ambulance, it hadn't taken them long to work out what had been happening, and as the paramedics immediately diagnosed a stroke, Eleanor had not been made a suspect in her husband's incapacity. They'd carted him off to hospital, but it was clear his condition would never improve, so Eleanor had installed a hospital bed and employed part-time carers to keep him cleaned and fed.

She was able to access their joint bank accounts again and was astounded to see they were remarkably well off, and so had begun her transformation of the austere house. It turned out that Eleanor had quite an eye for interior design, and soon she was in great demand, even featuring in magazines and on TV. The story of her "poor bed bound husband" and her dedication to ensuring he could be kept at home cast her in the light of an angel, a devoted wife caring for her husband – she did nothing to dispel that illusion. Neither did she ever speak of the abuse she had suffered at his hands.

It took him five long years to die.

Five years during which he still insisted he held the keys to the house in his hand, even though Eleanor had long since had copies made.

Five years for Eleanor to become the person she had dreamed of being during the long years of his mistreatment.

When the keys had slipped from his fingers for the last time, Eleanor had finally been freed to step into her future.

? Laura Billingham 2022