A/N: Just seeing how this site works on my phone. The formatting may be awful - sorry. I'll repost tomorrow properly if I need to. Thankyou:)
'The way in which he broke her down was clever; almost unnoticeable. To the rest it looked like she was crazy, and totally irrational.'
She sits in his drive, trembling slightly. Surely someone has seen her? This is supposed to be a secret. Tucking her blonde hair behind her ear, she pulls the keys from the ignition, briskly stepping out of the car. To anyone watching (not that there are any eyes on her) she seems like a woman who oozes self confidence, who has a feisty, assertive personality. As if this is the truth. She walks towards the front door, shaking a little more obviously, knees feeling as though they were about to buckle. Much as she wants to turn and run forever, she knows she can't. He likes her to behave the way she does at school, strong and healthy and radiant.
Pressing the doorbell firmly, she attempts to appear sexy and sultry, tugging a little on her minidress; biting invitingly on her lipsticked lower lip. He opens the door, smiling kindly, ushering her into his home. As she steps through the door, he places his hand on her lower back, guiding her in. The door clicks shut, and she is trapped. Caged. Locked in.
Displaying her true emotions is unacceptable. It makes him angry, and when it begins it makes her feel more exposed than usual - if that is possible. So she chokes down the feelings of disgust, loss and betrayal; instead displaying her pearly teeth in a wide smile as he offers her a glass of wine. For him, the game is just beginning again. She accepts. And she keeps accepting, until the bottle is nearly empty.
Now, when her thoughts are muddled and her surroundings are just a confusing kalediscope of colour, it becomes easier, more natural. She feels like her old self again, until he takes her gently by the hand and leads her out of the room.
And it hurts, it hurts so much. Flashes of hot white pain explode through her head as she squeezes her eyes shut. She knows to move with him, to reply to the funny sounds he makes with gasps - short and fast, so he thinks what he is doing is right.
Until finally, he stops, worn out. He falls on top of her, his body hot and sweaty and revolting. She lies there, clammy and cold, waiting for him to fall asleep before she eases out from under his body, and quietly collects her clothes.
She sits in his drive, trembling slightly. Surely someone has seen her? This is meant to be a secret. Pushing the keys into the ignition, she pulls away, engine rumbling quietly as she steps insistently on the gas pedal. The roads are empty and she drives alone, her thoughts her only company. They begin to manipulate her conscience and beliefs. She has nobody to turn to - even her sister thinks she's going the same way as their mother: dementia, the early stages.
She accelerates up into the carpark, heading towards the school - her baby. Tucking her slightly matted blonde hair behind her ear, she pulls the keys from the ignition, briskly stepping out of the car. She walks towards the front doors, pretences up again. Unconsciously, she finds the right key on the ring before she reaches them - and when she does approach them she unlocks them, slipping in quietly.
She struts through the darkened corridors and up the stairs, seeming strong and healthy and radiant. Her shadow follows her, pirouetting and dancing on the walls. Deep down, she knows her shadow is more like her twin - because that's all she is now, a shadow of her former self - though no one will let her admit it.
In seconds, she's reached the door to the roof and she pants heavily, searching for the correct key. Finally, she bursts through it, stumbling slightly on her heels. The air is cold out here, and the wind attacks her hair brusquesly, tugging it this way and that.
Vaguely, as she moves over the edge of the roof, she realises her shadow is gone. There must be a scientific reason for it - something to do with the lack of sunlight - but now she feels more alone than ever before.
Lorraine Donnegan knows the not-so-subtle differences between love and hate, affection and assault, truth and lies. Michael Byrne, however, believes that there are fine lines between each.
The final thought that runs through the blonde woman's head, though, as she plunges to the ground, is that maybe he is right.