Off Brighton Pier

 Jessica stared at the ceiling, her eyes seeing nothing but a blur as her mind tried to slip the shackles of her reality, or rather, the ‘iron maiden’ – and its torturous constriction – of her reality.

Her voice was hushed and dry, “Soon. It’s going to happen soon. Not long now. The knife will go in too far. The blood won’t stop. It’ll gush, and when that happens, the knife will keep on cutting and you’ll feel every-”

No! I don’t want to hear it. Go away. I want to see something else. A happy memory. The trip to Brighton and the walk along the pier. He rescued me. He dragged me from the water. He hugged me and told me he’d always keep me safe.

An unwanted silence fell that allowed her to hear the rhythmic pulse in her ears.

Behind the closed door came a hissing sound followed by something hitting the hard wooden floor that ran along the hallway outside the bedroom, first with a dull, wooden clonk, then with a metallic ching.

“Dickhead! You wanna go to A&E?!” His voice was abrupt, with subdued ferocity.

Jessica smiled, but it wasn’t schadenfreude that she felt. This was esoteric. Accident and Emergency was a place they usually went together. It was like their date night and when they returned home later, she would be granted a reprieve… for a few days, until the accusations started again. She would plead, but that was nothing a few slaps, or a hand on her throat couldn’t fix.

He continued to scold himself. Growling. The language was hidden, but sooner or later, the subject of his ire would hit a nerve and the focus would return to her.

Is this going to be it?

There would be no more beatings and no more waiting for beatings, after all, the waiting was always worse. When you hear a door or a drawer slam shut, followed by the eff word. The repeated eff word.

“Fucking bitch!”

There it was.

Jessica pulled the duvet up a little further and continued to stare in the direction of the ceiling. If she got up, he’d think she was putting on clothes to leave. That would aggravate matters. So she waited. She needed a memory. Something to take her away.

“I’m at home.” She whispered. “I’m at home...”

I’m at home. I’m seven years old and it’s my birthday. Granddad will be here soon with the cake that had no candles, but I’m not gonna cry this time cos I’m happy that they love me and they bought me a birthday cake with Pocahontas on it cos I like Pocahontas and she’s strong and smart and-

A slamming sound brought her back, but she was insistent she needed to return to the happy place. The door would open soon and she knew if the tears took hold – like they were threatening to do – it would fuel his aggression. Tears were not allowed. It showed disrespect.

‘After everything I do for you, this is what you give me?! Tears?!’

Tears were like an open vein to a blood-sucker.

“Nana and granddad. Nana and granddad.” She breathed their names persistently.

“Shut the fuck up!” His voice was sharp. He was berating himself. Addressing his fury. He needed to stoke the fire and as the door opened, Jessica knew what to expect, she just didn’t know where the first blow would land.

Her stomach tensed in anticipation.

He crossed the room quickly. There was no cause to savour the moment. The punch struck her firmly in the centre of her face forcing her head down into the pillow.

“Shut up! Shut your fucking face!”

She felt the hand around her throat and waited for the asphyxiation to begin. It never lasted too long though: the throttling. Ten seconds maybe, but as the seconds ticked away, so too ebbed her humanity-

six, seven, eight, n-

-and the grip was over. Nine seconds today, but before she could analyse this further the ball of his fist impacted heavily on the top of her head. The jolt resonated through her skull and she momentarily wondered if it was her spine she heard crack, or just the bed springs.

It was all happening so fast. He was like this sometimes. Sometimes he would pause to scream something at her, but the only thing screaming at her now was her nose.  Her eyes welled with tears and she could taste copper overwhelming the musk of sweat, aftershave and alcohol that smothered her like a thick, putrid smog.

It’s broken. He broke my nose. He never goes for my face. He likes my face. Maybe this is it. Maybe he’s going to do it.

She began to giggle and as she did, a little blood and saliva made its way past the epiglottis causing her to inhale liquid. In spasm, fine droplets – a red mist was coughed out, which speckled back down onto her face.

He jumped off her and back against the closed pink curtains. The curtains were always closed, as too were the windows. “Fuck.” He wiped his face. “You got blood in my mouth. Look at my shirt!”

This is my reality, she thought. I used to be young. People used to love me. Granddad saved me from the water.

The memory of the water was a trigger. In her mind she saw herself bobbing like an old plastic doll amongst the detritus and the white/brown foam. The salty taste of the bilious sea… and Granddad.

I knew I’d be okay. I wasn’t afraid. He was strong in those days.

She felt her face sting as another blow landed, but she wouldn’t be separated from her vision.

“Stay calm, lovely. You’re safe now.” There was a rasp to his voice giving it a lived-in sound. She felt his powerful legs kick underneath her and the cheering sound of the crowd on the beach grew louder.

You didn’t let me go till I let go of you. All I had to do was wait for you to rescue me. So I’ll wait now. Wait for you to rescue me again.

A strike across the face. “Do you want me to get the knife? Is that what you want?!”

So I’ll just lie here. You’ll be here soon…

“I’m gonna get the knife. I’m gonna stick it in your neck!”

You’ll rescue me again and I’ll be safe…

“Do you hear me? I’m gonna cut your head off!”

I’ll be safe…