torn

Torn

Jessica: In such a night,
Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew,
Stealing her soul with many vows of faith,
And ne’er a true one.
(The Merchant of Venice, V.I.ll 16-19)

The gentle clunk of his keys echoed through the hall, right on time. He never failed to be home at exactly the same time every day. That’s my husband. The husband my parents turn their noses up at, they’re just scared because he’s different. They don’t visit me anymore, they’ve stopped calling to make sure I’m okay; they’ve even stopped calling me ‘daughter’. Their friends are now under the impression that I got killed in a catastrophic incident involving a manic lawnmower. They say my mother used to have an imagination until she met my strict father. Even my friends act like I don’t exist. I use the word ‘friend’ because I like to think I have someone, even if it happens to be my worst enemy who will happily hold a tissue out for me and listen. I can’t remember the last time I had fun, or did something new. Isn’t that terrible? My husband and I always used to go out places, meet new people, but people always sneer and dismiss us in disgust.
All this and I still wonder why? What was so bad about my husband? Why did my parents hate him so much? Why hate the man I loved? It wasn’t because he was a nasty man or treated me bad. It was because he was black. What was so wrong with a white woman marrying someone she loved? Love is the strongest feeling in the world yet hate overpowers us all. If I am in love then why am I considered ‘dirty’? ‘Unclean’? It’s not as if falling in love with someone is illegal! My parents hate my life, everything I stand for. ”When are you going to have children? Why marry him?” These were the endless questions I’d receive on a Sunday afternoon while trying to eat my mothers roast. If I lived by my mothers’ ‘plans’ then I would be happily married for about five years with someone whom she liked and someone who was quite wealthy, with at least five children, all the boys in school and the girls at home being taught how to sew. By following my mothers’ ‘plans’ I might as well have not been born. But these plans were far from what I had in mind.
Marrying my husband was like skating on ice, a frozen lake that could break at any point. If I fell through I could sink or I could swim, I had two choices. I was probably too careless to check if the ice was firm enough to skate on at first; every day was like treading on the ice for the first time. I’d get the occasional hand stretching out to me to try and help me but my mum soon gave up trying to be there. I’d wanted to be independent so I’d brush her aside. I suppose I wanted to show the world that I could do it; I could have a marriage with someone completely opposite to me and survive. Even now I feel like the ice might break, even now that I know what to expect. Or do I?
I heard my husband’s tired footsteps advance down the hall. Why was I nervous? I’d cooked a nice meal for him, everything was perfect, and I’d even fixed my hair nicely. Yet something felt wrong. A hand wrapped softly yet firmly around my waist, fingertips tracing the pimples now arisen on my skin. I felt his lips softly touch my pale cheek, it didn’t feel right. I tensed up even more than before, pushing his hand off my waist and turning round to him. The usual warmth of love I would have felt from that kiss, swelling up inside of me, of safety and security, vanished. I don’t remember the last time he told me he loved me, as I gazed into his eyes I saw not even a hint of love. It felt like a single bullet had pierced my vulnerable heart. Love was now replaced with routine.
“What’s wrong?” He almost sounded concerned.
“Wrong? Nothing - why would there be?” I shrugged and placed a plate on the table. He sneered; that was bullet number two.
“What’s that, darling?” He said ‘darling’ as if he was spitting the words. The plate sat there, untouched, unappreciated. Did he not know how long I had bloody taken to make sure it wasn’t too dry, too wet, too burnt or undercooked? DID HE? To make sure that it was perfect for my perfect husband?
“I thought you liked spaghetti?” How banal. Was that all I could say? You stupid woman! My hand trembled, so did the veins in his neck. With a scornful look he stomped out of the house. Where on earth was he going? I knew something was wrong at that point; he wouldn’t usually storm out the house and reject me like that, even if I’d done something incredibly wrong. I was confused. I felt alone, trapped and yet somewhat reassured because I had known all along something was wrong, something bad was happening. I just needed something to happen and confirm my weary thoughts. Instead of moping around the house or sulking in my room, I decided to clean. I cleaned the house from top to bottom in a desperate hope that I’d clean out all the bad feelings. As soon as I rummaged through my husbands jacket, the bad feelings returned.
I found some envelopes containing letters, naturally. At first I thought nothing of them. How very wrong I was. As I became more curious I began to open them and read them. Did it really matter if I read these letters? Were they really that secret? After reading one letter I realised my life was a lie. With every word I consumed, my life became more of a lie, a pointless existence.
‘Stacey’ her name was. A five month affair and I had been too wrapped up in my own little defenceless world to even notice it. It all made sense now; spending so much time at work, avoiding me after a night out with his friends. His ‘friends’ obviously meant Stacey then. I can’t say I didn’t cry, because I did. It hurt. If I had done this to him, I can guarantee he would have been in so much pain, so much agony. It would be so hard for him to communicate just how he felt because the pain would almost eat him alive. It would be too devastating, too painful, too much for any reasonable person to take. I, however, had become numb after all the torment and lies my damn life had stood for. If he only knew what I was feeling, but he didn’t, how could he? He was a selfish, loveless brute with no respect whatsoever for other people. It was not so much the fact that I loved him; it was more the fact that I had come to the realisation that my whole life was spent serving him, but that still wasn’t enough for him. Not only were there two bullets in my heart, but now several knives, stuck in, twisting around. Was it my fault? Was I really not the perfect wife? Society is a funny thing; you can kill someone and go to jail, yet you can love someone and still live a life of solitary confinement. Maybe my parents were right; people like me should stick to their own kind. But love is what drove me to be with him. I loved him, he loved me, or so I thought. I would’ve been better off all alone at my parent’s house all these years. It jus seems like such a waste of my life, to suddenly have my eyes forced open and see the pain I’m in and yet to not have realised.
As I packed my suitcase, ready to leave, I felt more guilt creep into my veins. Why? Was I a bad wife? Did I never satisfy him? Did I not pay him enough attention? Not enough time? Enough care? I emptied all my possessions into that suitcase, all my history, all my past, my life. But as I straightened all my things so they would fit, the years crept upon me like the gust of wind you least expect. The memory of the romantic meal in Paris was embedded in that dress, the one every woman has; the little black dress. I put it in my suitcase, took it out, put it back in. But wait, why should I remember him? I took the dress out. Why should I remember the person who made me the misery and wreck I am today? Why is it that your favourite possessions are tainted with painful memories? I’d given up everything for my husband; the least he could do was be thankful and faithful. But all this was wishful thinking wasn’t it? How did I expect this to work? He’d traded me in for someone else.
Who was I kidding? My whole life was a farce. The safe, warm love I once felt had long gone, it was all nonsense; a joke. My reality was his game. Those words in the letters were not lies like the ones written upon my heart, they were truths. He loved Stacey, not me. My heart was bruised and battered; it felt like millions of paper cuts digging into my cold heart, more painful than any bullets you could shoot at me, more life prolonging. It only added to my suffering.
My suitcase, carrying a few essential belongings, wounded every step on the stairs with my presence. Would he even notice I had gone? Where was I going? I’d go to my parents naturally, but would they have me?
The long journey in the car seemed endless. But eventually I arrived outside the strange house I used to call ‘home’. I shuffled along dragging my suitcase, how would they react? My hand quivered as I forced it closer and closer to the door, I made a fist and knocked…
The door opened and I was greeted by my father, he looked old and weary. My heart nearly burst when I saw that look in his eyes, it was either joy or astonishment. He looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time in years; in fact he hadn’t seen me in years.
“Katy? Why…? Where’s Martin? Why are you here?” He was almost whispering.
“Dad, I don’t know how to explain this. Martin and I broke up; I need somewhere to stay until I can pick myself back up again. Is Mum in?”
My father shuffled his weight from side to side unevenly on the spot. Why wasn’t he telling me? Maybe she was at the shops?
“Love, didn’t you get my letter? I tried calling you but Martin said you were out. I always rang in the evening; I was at work the rest of the day,”
“Dad? No I didn’t, what letters?” My eyes began to swell with tears. A mournful look glistened in my fathers eyes, it was the first time I’d seen him cry and it hurt equally as much as the news of my mothers sudden death. I felt even more vulnerable now, with no mother I was completely against the world, and so was my father. My father walked over and gave me a hug, one of which I was in need of.
“Katy, I tried to get in touch, I really did. I can’t begin to explain how worried I was about you when I couldn’t get through. It was awful, when the police came and asked me to identify her I was dumbstruck, and the car was equally in a bad state…”
I stopped listening from then on. I couldn’t bear it. Why had Martin kept it from me? Why wasn’t I invited to the funeral? What has he done? Without realising I was walking hurriedly back to the car, shaking my head. I got back inside it, I had no idea where I was going, and I was just…driving. Driving to numb the overwhelming pain I felt inside. Why was my whole world crashing down around me right before my eyes? Yet it was all hidden from view. My eyes were open, yet I was blind, blinded by my own victimisation and failure.
It was me against the world, again. And this time I didn’t know or think that things would be okay. I lost my dignity that day, I lost my world, and I lost myself. I lost the one thing that kept me going all those years, my hope.
For all the pain I’d felt throughout my life, one crash took it all away in a split second. I didn’t feel any pain; the pain of the memories numbed me. I was selfish for once. I’d fallen through the ice and it was almost as if I’d forgotten how to swim. The pain was deep and never-ending, just like the lake itself that I was trapped in. I found myself trapped under a sheet of ice; all I could feel was cold, all I could see was the outside world. No-one could help me; I was under that ice just watching. I didn’t have the energy to fight, to try and break out, so I just gave up. You could say I gave up on my life, but what else did I have to live for?