Out of Body, Out of Mind. in Chapter 8 : Time to Heal

So…

I worked the bar job for a couple of months, but I couldn’t make ends meet on half the hours and half the pay.

My already fractured heart was starting to break.
I had no other choice, living with Daddy wasn’t option, I couldn’t go back to sofa-surfing, I was going to have to call my mother.

2005

Summertime.

“Do you even realise what you’ve said?” My mother glared at me, through me.
“Do you even realise what he did?” I retorted. I met her glare with fury. It was finally out. She had found my diary, she had read my diary, and she didn’t like what she had read; OBVIOUSLY it was some long term conspiracy to break up her marriage and not that Husband No.3 is a disgusting little man who likes to sexually molest teenage girls.
“You don’t believe me do you?” I asked her.
There was no reply, I grab my coat and my keys and walk out the door. The flame of my lighter flickers as I light a cigarette. Deeply inhaling the smoke and the knowledge that this was it, I had to get out of that house, and I wouldn’t be returning until he was gone. She had made her choice without being given an ultimatum. He had won, and he was welcome to his winnings. I knew when I was beat, and in that moment it cemented everything I had ever thought about my mother.

2009

June.

Staring at her name on the tiny screen. I know she’s close to putting him out. If she doesn’t or hasn’t then I’m well and truly fucked.

I tell her everything that’s happened.
She tells me she’ll put him out if I come back.
Is this her trying to make amends? No, it gives her an excuse, a reason, a justification, and most importantly to her, ammuniton. I will forever more be the reason why her third marriage ended, not that she will ever believe what happened to me, what he did to me when I was 15. She’ll never tell people why, but she’ll imply that it was my fault.
Right now I have no other choice but to accept that and put a roof over my head, and you cannot imagine how much I hate myself for having to stoop so low as to do this.

I don’t want to go back, not to her, not to that flat, not to that fucking town, but I literally have no choice and no money.

If the boy wonder hadn’t beaten me to it, I’d have rather died, but he did and so I’m stuck and in that moment the kitchen knife catches my eye, the sun glistening of the silver handle resting in the wooden block.

I’ll call her when I’m in a better mood, and so it begins again.

Last updated February 08, 2018