Bruised

 It’s all I ever heard: redemption song. Like a stuck record but one that always lifted my spirits.

            The bruises are fading but the pain is still real and here he is in the shine of the spotlight calling me names. Not the ones he calls me when Jack Danniels comes to town: stupid, fat, ugly. Those have fallen into darkness along with the rest of the ugliness. Tonight he is repentant, attentive, apologetic.

            The dinner is cooked. Steamed broccoli and almonds with a fillet of seabream each, hollandaise on the side. The table is laid with my favourite china and crystal.

            He doesn’t say sorry, he lets his efforts speak for him. He is a child without sufficient vocabulary, holding out a present wishing to make amends. There is a part of me that wants to tell him to go. What is this? It’s not enough to make up for… even I stop short of speaking its name. 

            Should I show him the marks on my skin, the bruising on my arms? Seeing them will not help him feel the pain he caused me.

            ‘Kitten, there you are. I was worried about you. You’re back so late.’

            This is how it’s going to be then. We do not speak its name, the skeleton that comes out of the closet. To name it is to goad it. Keep silent, let the moment pass into history. Guide me, Oh, thou great redeemer, teach me forgiveness.

            Look how wonderful he can be. This is what he wants. How he sees himself. How I should try to see him. If I am better, more careful he will be able to keep the other self at bay. I must let him be this version of himself. 

            He comes towards me. I flinch.

            ‘Your coat, madam.’ He says it smoothly, brushes a kiss onto my cheek. I feel my body grow rigid and am suffused with guilt. Why am I reacting like this when he is being so kind? I suppress the quiet voice in my head that tells me: you know why.

            And then it happens. The moment that spins on a dime: heads or tails. The fate of the evening, our future, rests in this moment. I know this. It is a dance that has become more familiar of late.

            ‘That’s a nasty cut over your eye, Kitten. Stitches?’ 

            He tuts gently as if reprimanding a careless child, waits a beat.

            ‘How did that happen?’

            He is standing behind me. I can feel the heat of him, his physical presence. I stutter, feel my face flush. My voice is small, hesitant.

            ‘Oh, I… a cupboard in the kitchen at work. It was opened and I didn’t see.’

            ‘You really should be more careful, my love. You can be such a clutz.’

Standing Alone

        The lake lay like a heavy blue shadow below the shelter of the celadon hill in the hours before midnight. The sky was dusted with clouds of stars like paint splatters from a toothbrush. I felt there were angels watching over me with smiles upon their faces and I could not regret this night even if it stood alone in its uniqueness. 

        I had to phone someone so I picked you and you did not disappoint. Where I saw the crescent, you saw the whole of the moon. You always had that gift of bringing me to laughter, bringing me home to myself, covering me with salt and kisses and firing me with a sense of belonging. 

        It had to end. All good things do. Now it was time to let the raven call you home. I called to your retreating form.

       ‘Don’t be a stranger!’

       And then, I was alone.

In the meadow - an extract

The grass beneath me is a velvet bed. Sky high flies buzz unseen. It seems the protection we hoped would be ours in this sanctuary has already turned bad. Telepathy, once a tool of transcendence, has become a silent assassin. My thoughts are not my own. The connection to others is not one I can control.

I close my eyes to the brilliance and concentrate my thoughts on the toll of the distant bell, adjusting my haunches, aligning myself to the sound. I can feel it reverberate, vibrating through the earth, the air, my skin. I am the bell and the bell is me; we are one. The rich sounds cocoon me; I am a butterfly in transition. Is this what I can be: pure and complex all at once?

My thoughts become muddled, a muted mayhem, a tortured tangle that jangles. The peace I felt just a moment before flown away like a bird. Closed eyes make you blind and yet I can see some things more clearly. There is a might of manipulation in their movement to maintain civility when the motivation is to control our next move.

I sit up, startled by the harsh ‘caw’ of a magpie and stare off into the trees. Evening will soon be here.