The autumn sky was grey and all around the house the leaves had fallen leaving the trees bare and naked, their golden, scarlet and brown leaves scattered across the pavement like confetti. The wind had whipped up and sent a spiralling cloud of dust from the end of the garden into the washing that was hanging limply on the line and dirtying it, making it smell of earth. The white had left one of the work shirts and in it’s place was a large brown smear of dirt, and three scarlet leaves were pressed against the sleeves, stuck there with the biting cold and the moist air.
The rain had started again. It was drumming on the rooftop like a thousand soldiers on their way to battle. If you closed your eyes you could almost believed that horns could be heard in the distance, with gunshots and the sounds of horses galloping towards the house.
Washing hung in the laundry room smelt of stagnant water, limp and dejected on lines hung with tatty pegs. The floor, a blood-red clay stone with a dusky glaze on it, stared up into the white atmosphere and made it the room glow as the sun happened upon the small square window in the wall.
The washing machine was empty and the dryer had broken down long since, and was now being used as a store for washing powder and machine cubes. Three baskets sat on the floor, none containing anything except air, and all were brown and looked old.
Amongst the baskets lay a woman. Her face wasn’t discernable under her arms, which she had thrown about her face in a defensive pose, but long brown hair coming out of a plait was spilling in waves around her head. She was thin, almost to the point of emaciation, and her clothing clung to the bony ribs that protruded through her skin. She was dressed almost entirely in clothes that didn’t belong to her, or had been passed to her. She had nothing new. Her feet were sore and itchy from the shoes she was made to wear, nearly two sizes too small for her.
And lying there, in the afternoon’s silence, she began to cry, a little and never too loud.
Of course, there would have to be more to do, before her husband came home. She would never be able to give him his shirts now anyway, not with all of the dirt on them. They would have to be washed again, and dried quickly with her hairdryer.
She brought her knees to her chin and unlaced her arms from her head to wrap them around her legs.
Her face was delicately freckled, her grey-hazel eyes were watery and sad, and her mouth, sporting a large cut and a bruise, the colour of grass with a dash of purple, was a thin line. Marks on her arms began to appear as she unfolded herself and stood up carefully. Burns and scars appeared on her legs as she stretched up to reach her full height of 5 foot 7 inches. She looked out of the window and held onto the edge of the counter with her fullest strength.
What had happened to her life since she had moved here with her husband? What had happened to the dreams of a family, of a loving world built around her home and her workplace? Where had the peace gone?
Now all she felt as she looked around the washroom was a desperate fear. For some things had changed so greatly since she had last been out of this town that it seemed almost as though she’d dreamt the last eight years.
She could almost reach out to touch her memories with her hands, and if she closed her eyes she felt as though she were almost near them, almost in them. She could even remember her own name.
Jessica Quinn. Jessica Quinn. Jessica Quinn. She remembered the time she had had a family. Her mother and father and a menagerie of animals, including her dog Calico. Her mind shot fire and ice at once and she closed her eyes against the memory of what had happened to her precious canine friend. The only friend she had had left and then he was taken from her in one moment.
She opened her eyes and looked out over to the holly bush that had begun priming itself for Winter, red buds already poking through the dark greenery. Pushing open the washroom door she walked over to the bush and knelt down beside it. The only thing growing in the garden was growing from her dog Calico. She touched the leaves and stroked the stem, smiling as though it were the dog itself she was petting.
And back into the memories she fell. Back to school days, the last years with a group of friends she loved to death. Karen, Sophie, John and, of course, Richard. Her prom night where she’d been foolish with drink and had lost her virginity to her best friend, who had then offered to marry her to protect her from those who wouldn’t take kindly to having a single mother around.
Of course all the signs were there. Richard, her best friend for so many years, who’d always been her mothers favourite and who she’d always said would end up marrying her if no one else would.
She remembered how much they’d tried to get along. When the wedding night had come round of course the marriage would have to be consummated, and she had cried the whole time. They had had a honeymoon, and spent most of the two weeks getting to know each other as lovers rather than friends. And in the end she thought they’d started a new chapter in their lives.
Four months into the pregnancy, on the way to a party, there had been a fearsome argument. Richard had slipped on some ice in the car and they’d crashed. She had lost the baby and had almost lost him too. He’d had some serious injuries, but she worked hard to get him well, to keep him with her.
And for some reason, things had never been the same since. Richard wouldn’t touch her, wouldn’t look at her, would swear, shout, and throw things.
If something wasn’t right he would see it fixed. If something wasn’t done precisely as he wished he would see it fixed. Or he would fix her.
And he had done. They’d moved to follow his job. The house was empty save for them both, and he made sure she had everything done that was required for the time he arrived home. The first time he had ever hit her was when she had accidentally burnt his shepherd’s pie on one side. He had smashed her cheekbone in one swift movement and sent her careering into the stove.
And once he’d done it, he’d said sorry, apologised, wept and she felt at last there was a release of anger from him. They’d both given up so much of their lives by getting married.
But from then on he knew he could do it, and he would do it more and more, and would feel sorry less and less. He would blame her for his life, blame her for the accident that killed his child, blame her for the weather, for something that had happened at work. Any excuse and he would use it.
And then, when she had never dreamt of anything worse, he would beat her and watch her as she bled and sobbed. And once he’d done that he would unzip his flies and make her do things to him, or he would do things to her. Once he’d beaten her with a piece of wood across the backside, and then pushed into her as she leant over the oven hob with the heat turned right up. And the more violent he got, the more bloodied and bruised she got.
And all for what? For missing a spot of dirt on the collar of his work shirt.
She opened her eyes and felt the cold wind smack her full in the face, causing her cut to throb and her sides to ache.
Something was welling up inside of her. She could feel something pounding within her skull, making her veins pulsate and throb around her body. Her blood began to boil. Her fists clenched together and snapped off a sprig of holly in one hand, causing the prickles to scratch her skin and cut her fingers.
She winced. Her eyes darted to where blood had begun to flow from her cut hand and she drew in a breath. She could feel. For the first time in so many years she wasn’t numb anymore. She felt.
The wind slapped her face again and she stood fully facing it. It whipped her hair from her face and blew her skirt out from underneath her.
Standing in the garden she resembled something of a heroine, her battered face and ragged body standing full force into the wind, eyes wide with new found resolve and arms tense, wasted muscles suddenly appearing taut and ready.
A slam in the distance made Jess snap her head towards the door. It was time to face her demon.
She waited in the garden, her body trembling, not with fear but with anger and walled up emotion. In her minds eye she could see him in the hallway, shaking mud from his boots onto the carpet in the porch, pulling off his scarf and cursing as he shrugged off his coat. She could hear his voice call out to her, wanting immediately to inflict some sort of grief onto her. As she visualised him she could feel the well begin to crack and groan. It was as though behind a wall inside of her a huge flood was building. The bricks were creaking, shuffling and grating against each other as the force of the flood pushed against it.
He was upstairs now in her mind, he was looking for her, calling her and cursing her. He was taking off his belt and coming into the kitchen. He would be able to see her in the garden, the shirt stained dark and the holly slicing further into her skin, dripping blood onto her skirt. She saw his silhouette, could see him shaking his head and tugging in the breath that would eventually lead to a shout or a release of anger.
He disappeared and she knew he was coming for her. How could she stand out in the garden in front of all the neighbours like this? What would they think of him?
And there he was, in the doorway of the washroom, a large brown leather belt swinging from his left arm. And she felt the wall give slightly, trickles of the flood pouring into the well she had built for it. All this time she had waited within herself, and it had taken a sprig of holly to revive her, to awaken her and to make her move. A sprig of holly she had picked from her dead dog’s grave, a dog which had been brutally kicked until dead by the man stood on the grass before her.
“Jessie. What are you doing out here?” the voice licked around her ears, encircling her with a thousand threats, like knives in a magicians box.
She said nothing and trembled still. A crack appeared in the wall and the groaning went on.
“Why don’t you answer me Jessie?” he walked behind her and she continued to tremble with anger.
He came up close behind her and pushed his groin into her backside. “Jessie, I want you to go back inside now.”
She stepped forward and then stopped and waited.
She could hear an intake of breath; she knew he was getting angry with her.
The crunch of leaves behind her told her he was standing next to the washing line. There was a tutting noise and then a fierce grip of her arm.
“Jessie’s not done a very good job of her washing now has she?” he sneered and began to pull her towards the house.
She held back, dug in her heels and he turned to face her fully.
“Get in the house you stupid bitch.” He sneered. The bricks began tumbling out of the wall and she felt her face crack into a smile. It was sweet release and suddenly she felt fluid, alive, WARM, for the first time in a long time.
“What’s so funny Jessie? I wouldn’t smile any more if I were you.”
He pinched her arm but she didn’t care and she began to laugh.
His eyes only betrayed slight surprise but he brandished the belt and shook his head. “Jessie you don’t leave me much choice.”
He took her by the arm and led her towards the house, and she went with ease. She had seen her plan laid out before her in her mind only moments before and she knew what she would have to do in order to be free.
He began whistling as they walked towards the house and slowly began to let her go. He turned to her and sneered as they stepped onto the patio. Jessica knew this was her time to move.
She had seen it as she had left the house, stood up against the wall of the shed, dusty and cobwebbed with months of disuse.
He saw it as it came towards his head as he turned around to look at her again, eager to get her inside so he could relieve himself inside her.
Jessica soundlessly raised the spade above her head as the flood washed through her, cleansing her, absolving her, and, with the sudden strength of the survivor, she smashed it onto his head.
He fell forwards towards the doorway, and yet still moved. She threw the spade onto his back again and he writhed in pain, coughing blood onto the pale slabs. Again the spade fell until finally he stopped moving.
And then she stopped. The spade clattered to the patio with a jangling noise and she stood watching her dead husband’s blood pool out beneath her feet. Years of hurt, of suffering, of pain and anguish were suddenly over, and in an instant Jessica saw the clouds that had dogged her vision disappear. Everything was clearer, stronger, bolder and more beautiful than before and she looked at her husband with new contempt.
She stepped over his body, and with a second thought, threw a sheet of tarpaulin over him. Heading inside the house she began to move quickly. If any of her neighbours had seen the police would arrive in moments.
She ran upstairs, pushing through drawers, yanking clothes into a small bag, pulling a hair bobble into place under a cap and throwing on a huge grey coat her mother had sent her for Christmas.
And then she raided his bottle. He had always kept money a secret from her but she knew all of his hiding places, and particularly his whiskey bottle, stashed under his trousers in his chest of drawers. In total she counted at least a thousand dollars.
She searched in his bedside cabinet in a flurry now. She knew he kept her passport. He wouldn’t let her out of his sight for two seconds longer than he had to. And now she was rifling through his drawers, pulling them out and messing up the clean space he insisted they inhabit.
And it was there. Shiny and never used, her passport beamed up at her like a ray of sunshine. Grabbing it she pulled on a pair of his trainers, two sizes too big but he wouldn’t complain and threw some more clothes into her bag. She ran to the kitchen, and after raiding the fridge and emptying the biscuit barrel into a plastic bag she headed towards the front door.
This was the moment that would change her life forever. Her hand wavered over the handle, her newfound confidence suddenly balancing on a tight thread. If she passed that door it would never be open to her again. Her mind flew back to the life she had had with her husband and she took a deep breath before pushing it open.
With a fresh, new life open to her now, would she ever really want that door to be open for her again?
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