14 - Abreact

Matty:

The gloomy sky matches my mood as I gaze out the car window, peering up at the looming building. My eyes focus on a particular window four stories up, and I wonder vaguely if anyone had ever been able to see me from there, staring longingly out at the thriving world below and wishing I could have been a part of it. Back when I envied young girls waiting for buses, because it meant they had something to do, somewhere to be – that they mattered. Back when I tried in vain to pull out the nails from the sealed windows with only my fingers, living off a daydream that at some point, I would succeed and climb down the daunting height via knotted sheets and towels, if I couldn't get the one in the bedroom open to the fire escape.

But I'd ended up walking straight out the front door instead. Bloody, broken and delirious.

So now, the vivid recollection of how I'd come to be in such a state resets my mind to its initial revulsion to the thought of returning here.

A hand on my shoulder causes my limbs to twitch reflexively, though I'm unable to drag my attention from the empty window.

"I don't want to do this," I repeat for perhaps the tenth time since last night, when Ted suggested we come first thing after he got back from work today.

He squeezes my shoulder, but it does little to alleviate the leaden knot in my gut.

"It's all right – I'm gonna be right there with you," he reminds me softly, and at the gentle brush of his knuckles over my cheek, I turn to him with moist eyes. "I promise," he adds, as if that'll get my body moving.

It's a heartfelt attempt on his part, and I know it'll all be a relief once it's done and we're "home" again, safe and sound. But right now...

I turn away from his encouraging expression and recommence staring at the window far above us.

Right now, I just don't know if this terror is worth it.

Though I'm silent as I lead Ted, who carries a few empty plastic bags in his hands, up the old staircase to the fourth floor, I can hear my heart pounding furiously in my ears – and for no logical reason, other than the repugnant thought of being back in those familiar rooms again. I suppose the possibility of John actually being home is reason enough to fill me with such dread, but I assure myself that it's illogical – when has he ever been home before nine, at the absolute earliest? He's dedicated to his job, certainly more than he ever was to my happiness, so it stands to reason that my disappearance still shouldn't affect his work habits; if anything, in fact, I would assume he's so hateful of me, of being alone at all, that he'd probably throw himself further into his work. Probably chase exasperated students down on campus to give them random quizzes and extra advice or something.

I shudder to think what sorts of things he's told anyone, like our neighbours, or anyone else who knows he had a side ornament tagging along for the ride all these years, but I try to push it out of my head: it doesn't matter, it's not important, it has no effect on me.

I've almost got myself settled as we reach the appropriate floor and head to my old "prison chamber" – but when I see the door set partially open, slightly off its hinges, with the remnants of splintered wood and a broken latch still hanging uselessly from where I tore it off weeks ago... my body comes to an abrupt halt in the middle of the corridor, my hands trembling.

"Matty?" Ted stands right behind me, off to the side, and places a hand on my back for comfort as he peeks over my shoulder. "You okay?"

I draw in a shaky breath, staring numbly at the damaged door – no doubt, John's heard threats from our landlord for this... but then, even if I'd been the one to force it open, breaking the lock, I hadn't torn the thing halfway off its hinges. The damage had been easily repairable before. John had to have done it. Probably in his fury when he woke to find me missing.

Ted follows my gaze to the door and gestures to it. "Is that it?"

I can't work my voice. Not even when he dares to step around me and reach for the haphazard slab. I want to warn him, to tell him to leave it be, that I can't face what's on the other side of it yet...

But I say nothing, and the remaining hinge makes an awful groan as the door is slid open a few more inches. Ted peers inside, eyes taking in all I can't see myself, and he mumbles stunned words as he enters the living room without me.

"Holy shit," I hear. "This place is..." He reappears in front of me, eyes wide. "You had to live like this? The place is a wreck!"

I blink quickly, shaking my head. "N-No... It's not..." I finally gather my strength and step past him into the room – but then my breath leaves me once again as I look around at the disaster that used to be our home. "This isn't... what it looked like before..."

Apart from the damaged door, he's left a few gaping holes in walls whose rather plain white papering is peeling away. The couch has been moved, almost diagonal now, with marks in the back like he's kicked it in. Cushions are ripped, spewing forth the stuffing, and one of the arms is bent so fiercely that it's practically lopsided.

The small table between the television and couch is overflowing with unopened mail; stained with spilled drinks and crumbs; marred with a gaping crack reaching at least two feet across the top of it. The ashtray is full of yellow butts and grime, and on top of all that paper, it's surely a fire hazard.

His own cherished recliner is on its side, the seat cushion on the other side of the room. Under the fallen chair, slid out across the floor as if a stack has toppled over, are numerous familiar books: photo albums, I recall hazily. Old history from ages ago, back when we'd first moved here, and earlier. Before things had gone completely downhill.

"Damn," Ted whispers, shaking his head as I gape around at the mess. "Try finding the remote in this..."

"I imagine that's how the holes got there," I quip, though my voice is hollow and shocked. I carefully step over the piles of envelopes, catalogues and overturned coffee mugs to squat down near the fallen albums. I hazard lifting one from the floor as Ted swings around the corner of the doorway for a moment.

"There's a flashing light in here," he calls, not daring to turn on the overhead. "Is that a phone?"

"Machine?" I call back, still too distracted by the photo album to pay attention.

There's a slight pause, and Ted lets out a low whistle. "Jesus – I don't even want to know what this place looks like in the light of day, if the smell is anything to go by..."

There's a slight rustle from the other room as I turn the album upright and set it in my lap, opening it slowly. A click and beep later, a mechanical voice rings out from the kitchen: "You have thirty-two new messages."

I twist back to throw Ted a wide-eyed look as he watches me from the doorway. "Thirty... Thirty-two?" I ask, shaking my head. "That's... just not possible..."

He shrugs helplessly, and starts hesitantly picking at things on the floor, unable to quench his neatfreak habits, attempting to sift through some of the mail as I turn back to the book and the messages play behind me.

"John, it's Dean. I'm calling to check in on you, as it's been three days now and the big man on campus won't tell me nothin'... So when're you comin' back, eh? If we're doing that joint session next week, I'll need to talk to you about the details... Call me back..."

I blink furiously at the crinkled cellophane covering snapshots of a younger, happier couple as the next several messages play: all random professors and colleagues, calling to ask after him. I assume he'd been out the rest of the week when I first left, as no one seems to have known why he wasn't around... One in particular is an older lady, asking about his "family emergency," as if she really cared...

Blimey. The bastard's had an entirely separate life from here. Not that I care, really, but... the double-standard is just so infuriating. I truly was a "kept woman," wasn't I? The Alpha Male lording over his home and ruling things at work, whilst I sat here typing away blindly and cluelessly, wondering when the hell my life was going to start up...

Then the familiar disembodied female voice rings out from the machine: "This message is for Mister Gabriel. This is Rita from Royal Medical Services. We have been attempting to contact you via your Internet email address regarding your status with our agency, but have not received any response. We would greatly appreciate your correspondence on this matter, as it's been more than a week since our last communication from your source connection. Please contact us at your earliest convenience..."

I stare blankly at the pictures in front of me. Bloody hell. She sounds as lifeless as the bloody machine spewing these recorded messages at us.

There's a faint pause, then Ted's soft voice as he sits gingerly on the undamaged arm of the couch. "Gabriel?"

I glance back at him absently, shaking my head. "Yeah... Thought you knew that."

I can tell he's smiling at the back of my head, furtively joyful over yet another "new" discovery about me. "Matyson Gabriel. Nice name."

"Mmm," I mumble, refocusing on the photographs. "I figured you saw it on the records that gallery bloke gave us."

"I should've paid more attention, I guess. I was a bit too concerned about the numbers to focus on the letters."

I flip a few more pages and come to a stop at one of the first pictures which shows evidence of when the violence started – though we're still beaming our bloody faces off to cover up the poorly concealed black eye he'd given me. Sitting in a pub with another person in the same booth with us – one bloke from another couple we'd met hardly a year after coming here. He and his lover, the man holding the camera, had been extremely kind blokes who'd tried to take us out on a friendly level, tried to tell us more about the fun parts of London we could explore.

"You have a middle one?"

I swallow hard, studying the photo next to it: just me and John, his arm round my shoulders and eyes peering haughtily at the camera whilst pecking my cheek, and me holding my arms out in front of me, clutching my hands together as I smile shyly up at the bloke and try to bow away from the attention.

Even at that time, I'd felt like he genuinely loved me. Like he'd truly been sorry for hurting me. And having that picture taken of me was uncomfortable, I remember my hesitance – because I didn't want anyone thinking he'd done it...

"Sarosh."

I don't even register his silence as I continue gazing at the pictures. Two more are random moments of just me, looking awkward and timid, but smiling nonetheless, on that same "double-date" the kind men had insisted we all go on together. We never went out with them again after that night, because John said he disliked them, though I could never work out why – they had seemed like completely harmless gentlemen... if the man behind the camera was a bit louder and somewhat blunt with his overzealous nature...

Thinking back now, I realise, I can easily take a guess as to the real reason why John disliked them: because the more friendly, affectionate bloke had paid a bit too much attention to me – not just for the pictures themselves, but what I simply thought back then was a nice guy joking around with me, being funny and such... I can see it. After what Ted's told me and pointed out to me these last few weeks, I know now that the guy had been flirting with me, and I hadn't even known it. I was too stupid, too naive, too oblivious – too blind and needy for just a friend, to see that this – albeit still innocent, but rather blatant – fawning over me was a huge problem for my insecure lover to handle.

Still, it didn't have to mean he was after me – he was just having some fun.

To John, though, the fact that I giggled along with him and gave those sneaky looks to the camera was enough for him to want to put some distance between us and them; it didn't matter if the guy was serious, or if his lover scolded him for being obnoxious when they got home later. To John, he was a threat. So I never saw either of them again.

Most likely, one or both had tried to call a few times after that night, but John probably always answered and made excuses – or flat-out told them to go away.

Good God, I think suddenly as I stare into my own achingly lonely eyes from over six years ago; what if he did worse than that? What if, for revenge, he tried to make it seem like the camera bloke truly fancied me? Would he actually have dared to break up this couple merely to get back at the one for thinking me... well... photogenic?

I don't want to think so... but my still-imprisoned pub mate and memories of why I hate hospitals assure me that it's not so far-fetched a possibility.

The rock in my gut turns a few times, grinding my stomach to a pulp as I flip through the rest of the album and am reminded of numbers of old mates, potential mates, possible friends – and realise how their numbers always dwindled as time wore on, their contacts always abating the more times we got together with them socially, until it was, inevitably, just me and John. Again.

My God, I muse silently, slamming the book shut with a snap. How many lives did he threaten? How many relationships did he ruin? How many people did he offend or try to damage in some way? Just to keep them away from me – because he didn't trust them around me... or me with them...

Holding my head in my hands, I don't even notice how I've begun rocking back and forth, not hearing Ted as he asks me something I can't concentrate on right now. Still stuck on the name thing. I can't focus, can't comprehend his attempts to distract me, to calm me... to get me thinking of something besides the horrid realisations and stifling memories that are making me nauseous right now...

Ted leans down and rests a steady hand on the back of my neck, causing me to jerk my head up with a gasp. I twist round to face his concerned countenance, feeling breathless and weak.

"Hey. You all right?" he whispers, wiping some dampness from my face. It's not tears, I notice, startled that it's even there – it's sweat. Just being here makes me feel cold and clammy, but my rapid heartbeat and ragged breath are signs of being right smack in the middle of a recognisable sensation: panic.

"Yeah," I sigh harshly, dropping the book like it's hot metal against my flesh, attempting to stand on wobbly legs – and failing. Remaining crouched down, I inhale deeply and close my eyes, willing the dizziness to go away. "Just a bit... um... nervous," I go on, taking a stab at nonchalance but being betrayed by the quiver in my voice.

Ted nods knowingly as I open my eyes again, forcing an unsteady smile. Thankfully, he doesn't say anything to contradict my claim, but still offers a hand to help lift me to my feet. Once we've cleared the dangerous piles of junk mail, he doesn't let go – his arm remains hooked round my waist, the other linked with my own as he grasps my fingers with his. Reaffirming his presence, so I don't have to become so overwhelmed and incapacitated with memories of regret. Or terror.

Speaking of terror...

We start for the kitchen, and Ted repeats the earlier question that I missed: "Your middle name is... Sarosh?"

"Yeah," I confirm softly, eyes trained on the dark doorway.

"That's a bit... unusual..."

I smirk and squeeze his fingers to show my gratitude for his distraction. "My mum was... unusual."

"So... where's it come from?"

I swallow hard, now overcome by the faint whiffs of mold growing stronger. "Ugh... Um, the name – it's from some ancient religion... Apparently it was the name of some being from those stories... I think it was the equivalent of an angel or something..."

He pauses, causing me to come to a halt as well. I glance over at him in confusion, wondering why he's stopped – and it's not the impending stench up ahead... He's simply looking at me, a small smile on his face.

"Whu?"

"An angel, huh?"

I feel my cheeks regaining some color, as I blush furiously and avert my eyes. "So?" I mutter, nudging us forward. "Go on, then, laugh..."

He does snicker, but it's not in jest – he's amused, but not for the reason I think he is.

"Actually," he murmurs, his own grip on my hand tightening, "I think your mother was very insightful."

I scoff at that, but don't protest – hell, I've already told him I'm no bloody angel, but the bloke doesn't want to listen. But whatever. All that matters is that he's with me, and I'm safe, and I know how much he loves me merely by the steady hand on my side.

And we have to face this new dilemma together. This could very well test his devotion to me, I think cynically as I reach to flick on the lightswitch in the kitchen.

I'm taken aback once again by the catastrophe that greets us: dirtied dishes piled high in the sink, refrigerator-kept food left mangled on the tabletop, counter filled with half-finished take-away, and the entire room – even the stools in two separate corners – is littered with empty liquor bottles.

The smell alone is enough to turn one's stomach, as I hear Ted's disdainful groan beside me, but despite this unkempt disarray, my main source of paralysis comes from my attention settling on that table – now full with rotting lunchmeat and the like from the deli... but I see more than that.

All I can process is a volatile fragment of being held down on that table, nearly drowning in flowing red wine as I choked and sputtered, groping blindly for the fierce arms which kept me restrained.

All those times he became infuriated with my lackluster attitude whilst serving him his dinner; those times he was so sure I was mocking him or being smart... leading to a rather painful encounter in which he would "prove" to me who was the "man" between us...

I must stare at it bleakly for such a long moment as to worry Ted, because he has to shake me by the shoulder to wake me from my stupor, snapping my head round to face him with a dazed, arduous look. I immediately feel the urge to flee, to just turn right back to the front door and run...

"Hang in there," he urges, squeezing the back of my neck affectionately. "We're almost there." He cringes at the mess of a kitchen whilst I catch my breath, asking hopefully, "Nothing from here, right?"

I faintly shake my head, looking away to face the doors to the other two rooms – the extra room, which served as both John's study and my half-arsed attempt at a studio... and the bedroom.

Ted notices that I'm staring hard at one of the doors, and nudges me slightly with a hand holding an empty bag. "Which do you want to start with?"

I feel a flutter in my chest as I realise he intends to assist me in packing my belongings, and my mouth goes dry. All I can do is shake my head, otherwise immobile. My feet seem rooted to the floor.

As if instantly reading my dilemma from the stone-cold expression on my face, he pushes gently, "Would you rather I do one room, you do the other?"

I blink finally and whirl back to him, startled that he's even suggested it.

"You sure?" I ask, as if it's not my choice.

He tries to shrug it off, but I can see the genuine caring in his eyes. "I know it must be hard – but you may not feel comfortable with me in such a... a private moment. I don't want to intrude if it makes it harder to deal with, having me there – but I don't want you to think I'm not right here for you. If you need me. It's up to you – whatever you can handle. If you need to be alone for that... for that part... just let me know."

I swallow thickly, once again touched by his devout kindness and understanding. Taking one of the bags from him, I know there's no way I want to subject him to being in... that room with me. I just can't deal with the idea of him coming that close to it... as senseless as it is, really.

I gesture to the other door. "My art supplies and notebooks are in there. I really just want the tools and books – no need for the easel or anything too difficult to carry."

He nods and heads over as I make my own way to the other door. I watch him carefully as he opens it and makes a sharply contorted face of disgust.

"Must've done some heavy drinking in here, too," he mumbles, cringing at the obvious odor which seeps out. He flicks on the light and peeks inside for a moment, then pulls back with a sad smile.

"Can the computer, by any stretch of the imagination, not count as something `too difficult to carry'?" he asks hopefully.

I smirk back regretfully, shaking my head. "Unfortunately, that stays. It's his anyway – he just let me use it for work."

"Damn. Oh well..." He glances back for a second, then turns to me again. "How about the piano? That's yours, right?"

Again, I have to disappoint him with a negative response. "Sorry – it was a present, yeah, but it's still technically his. Too heavy for the car anyway, I reckon."

He sighs heavily. "That's a real shame. I'd love to come home and watch you play every evening..."

"S'awright," I assure him, a lump forming in my throat. When he regards me curiously, I give a timid smile and explain in a strained voice, "He only got it for me as a pity present anyway."

Ted furrows his brow, tilting his head to one side in question.

"When he... put me in hospital," I clarify. "After that, he felt so guilty that I'd nearly... well... y'know... He thought he could make up for it by gettin' me that... so I wouldn't, y'know.."

"Tell anyone?" Ted suggests wryly.

This time I'm confused – and it strikes me just now, how off my reasoning is... because, to me, it's just a matter of assumed acceptance that I not tell anyone – of course I wouldn't have said anything, not to the doctors or the police... It was just known that these things were not to be revealed to anyone else.

But how do I explain that to someone whose first thought is that the piano was a bribe to win my silence for John nearly killing me?

Well... I simply don't. Instead, I only answer, "Leave him."

Since, of course, I had, at that time, just proved to John that I was desperate enough to get away from him that I would walk out and go off with the first bloke I met at any random pub.

Which also led, despite the grandiose gesture of buying me my very own piano, to the external lock on the door – in case I ever felt like wandering off on my own again when he wasn't around.

As Ted dives into the other room to collect what he can find, I hesitate in front of the door I face, feeling myself withering from the inside-out with just my fingers on the handle. I try to steel myself against the possibilities, the potential flashbacks my mind could choose to torture me with this time, but there are just too many... an overabundance of expected memories that could come flooding my head once given the chance...

Preparation is unnecessary, I think drearily as I turn the handle – whatever may come, there's no real guard against it. Might as well just get it over with...

The room is shrouded in darkness, and it doesn't help the eerie atmosphere when the light fails to work – broken bulb gone unreplaced, I surmise.

However, I'm quite surprised that, when I enter the too-familiar room and the same pungent stench of stale alcohol invades my senses, I'm faced first and foremost with that wretched bed, the one I'd been repeatedly tied to over the years, having to endure John's persistent, violent hands and brutal, forced fucks – and I feel... numb. I've seen this piece of furniture in my worst dreams, have awakened screaming with tears covering my face – and confronted with it now, I feel nothing.

No flashbacks, no flood of memories, no moments lost in a sea of hysteria and panic.

Nothing. Just silence, darkness – only a vague sense of empty sorrow for whatever form of injured weakness I used to be as I laid broken and helpless on that worn mattress.

The light from the kitchen is the only contrast in this lifeless space, apart from a dim streetlight half a block down sneaking through the window, and my sigh seems to disturb the very atmosphere of the room in an invading, intrusive manner. As if the place itself is angry at me for my now distanced acceptance of the things he'd done to me – like it resents my pity for all these four walls have had to witness.

I slowly step to the bed and sink onto the mattress, my fingers grazing over the wrought-iron bars of the headframe. Twisting round the rusted metal like the very rope which used to entrap me.

How old this bloody bed must be. We'd gotten it at a home sale the first year we came to London. Like the lock, the ropes never made an appearance until after the first time I walked out, but I wonder now if, even back then, he'd insisted on this particular frame for the possible advantages of the bars. Surely he couldn't have foreseen the eventual outcome of his thoughts to keep me restrained in every way imaginable.

With a strained air of humour, I mumble quietly, "Why not just handcuffs, eh? Wouldn't have hurt as much – though I suppose that was part of the point, wasn't it? Still... would've made it a bit kinkier, I reckon – maybe I would've gotten into it then..."

The dark room continues its cold silent treatment, save for the squeak of the bedsprings as I stand with a sigh and flick the bag out in front of me.

For a moment, I hesitate again as I swear I've just heard something beneath the noise of the plastic opening to my sharp movements – a grunt of some sort? A small groan? Probably the sounds of Ted moving around in the next room, I decide, and step up to the dresser, where open drawers are already holding out strewn clothes to me.

"Well," I say to the darkness, "maybe for once your angry fits will be more of a help – don't have to fight with these bloody oak drawers. You always did get a kick out of watchin' me struggle, didn't you? Bloody heavy buggers--"

My voice chokes off into a sharp gasp – though I don't feel a thing, like the iron grip round my midsection. All I can comprehend, as my brain finally collapses under the flimsy support of a renewed, vague confidence, are the rush of previous experiences when I find myself inexplicably flat on the bed again, staring up at a darkened ceiling as the echo of a slamming door reverberates in my ears. And, like an oxygen mask held by a frantic nurse, my lips are suddenly covered – smothered by a revolting, hungry mouth.