White Blank Page

For two weeks he tiptoed around me, leaving before I woke up in the morning and spending his evenings in the room he’d converted into his study. Sometimes I’d wake up and find breakfast waiting with a note, and on one occasion he’d left the spare set of keys and some money, meaning that I was finally at liberty to go out. I spent the day in a bookshop in Stoke Newington, and bought myself a refill pad and a pack of biros, tucking the rest of the money into a pocket.

The girl behind the counter was my age but I could tell that she thought I was older- I had stopped bothering about my hair and what I wore.

The second Sunday, he finally spoke to me. I had woken up to breakfast, flowers on the table and a card asking me to dinner.

“What do you say?” he asked, coming into the kitchen silently. I spun around, trying to calm myself down; he had scared me.

“I- I…” I took a deep breath. I couldn’t show him any fear. “I don’t know. Why should I?”

“Because I want to show you that I love you. I made reservations and, if you go into the spare room, you’ll see a dress I got for you to wear. I want to say sorry for… for everything that I’ve done. I’ve thought a lot about us these past two weeks and I’ve realised a lot of things… most importantly that I can’t live without you. You make my life worth living.” I gave him a sceptic look. I didn’t believe a word he was saying.

“Look, I know I haven’t always treated you as I should have, or respected your feelings, but I just… I love you. And I will change, if you give me the chance. I’ve already started changing. So let tonight be the start of a new life for us.” The look in his eyes was so beseeching and his speech, although far from eloquent, was persuasive, and had that ring of sincerity to it. So I relented, grudgingly.

“Fine. I’ll go out to dinner with you. But remember, if you blow it, we’re done.” He nodded, a huge, happy smile on his face.

~

The dress was beautiful.

It was a bluey-grey colour and it sailed to the floor. And there was a matching shawl, to cover my arms. My horribly scarred arms. The arms that would draw unwanted attention.

I brushed the thought off, and got dressed.

I’d never had a chance to wear anything that came near that dress in either elegance or beauty. When I put it on, I felt amazing. It swung with me as I moved, the material almost fluid, and it was silky against my skin. It made me want to dress up, more than anything else. I wished I had makeup, and hair products. I wanted to wear a tiara. The dress made me feel like a princess.

But then I saw myself. The dress remained beautiful, but I wasn’t. The grey made my skin seem washed out, and although it felt like it fitted, it hung oddly off my bones.

You’re a mess, a voice in the back of my head whispered. Nothing more. Take it off. Take it all off. You make me sick- I realised with a start that those were the same words he’d said to me, more than once. Not exactly correct, but close enough.

The evening was looking doomed already. But I said I would go. That meant I would go, and then when we came back I would pack my bags, take some money- whatever I could find- and leave. I stole one last look in the mirror before exiting the room, and going to meet him.

~

The restaurant seemed nice. Not too expensive, but not gaudy and cheap either. It occupied a very comfortable sort of middle ground between those two extremes. But people were looking at us, I was sure of it. Wondering what he was doing with me.

He was handsome. His suit was grey, to match my dress, with cream buttons, and his hair was neatly combed down. And his eyes sparkled happily. I had forgotten over the past three years how handsome he was.

I felt dowdy, old. Ashamed of myself.

The thought crept in, unbidden, and I realised it was another statement of his. That he was ashamed of me, disgusted with me. I sucked it away.

Tonight. I would leave tonight.

~

First course came, and he said suddenly-

“How about champagne?”

I didn’t understand what he meant at first; it had come out of nowhere. But then he called the waiter back, and asked for a bottle of champagne for his pretty lady. The compliment didn’t thrill me like it should have. I knew he couldn’t mean it. I wasn’t pretty, not any more.

The glasses came first, followed closely by the bottle which looked like it would have cost a fortune on its own.

I was looking down at my napkin, overwhelmed with the feeling that he was planning something, that something bad was going to happen, so I didn’t see the ring until after I’d taken a sip of the champagne and put the glass back down.

It was a silver ring, and it held a stone the size of my thumb.

He took my surprised gasp as his cue, and got down on one knee, smiling brilliantly at me.

A hush fell over the restaurant slowly as people glanced over, always ready for a show.

I shook my head, disbelief coursing through me. It wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening, it was impossible.

“Lauren, will you marry me?”

The restaurant waited in tense silence for my answer. Tears slid down my face. I wanted to say yes. So badly, I wanted to say yes, and fall into his arms and into his smile.

I opened my mouth, beginning to form the answer and he grinned, seeing what it was.

But I had promised myself. I had promised myself that I would leave.

Another tear rolled down my face, and I pushed my plate away.

“I- I… No. Not now. Not tonight,” I said and the silence of the restaurant managed somehow to deepen until someone coughed. Then, slowly, people turned back to their eating, stealing glances out way.

I didn’t look at him, and for a while he didn’t speak. But then he got up off the floor and sat down, dusting off his trousers.

“What was that?” he asked, simply, finally.

“I said I can’t. Not tonight.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?” he said, his voice raising slightly, an edge to it.

“I mean that I can’t. I can’t do this, I can’t marry you,” I whispered, my tears threatening to come back with renewed vigour. “I… I’m sorry. I’m going to go- go to the bathroom.”

I hurried away without waiting to see what he would say.

I got stares in the bathroom too, the kind of stares that spat you’re the woman who said no.

I ducked my head down and hurried over to the sinks, turning on a tap and splashing my face with water, trying to straighten my brain out.

My shawl slipped as I splashed my face a second time, and revealed my left arm. I only remember the problem when one of the woman beside me gasped. I pulled the shawl up hurriedly and almost ran into a cubicle to get tissues and hide from the stares.

When I finally came out of the bathroom, and got back to our table, the plates had been cleared and he stood beside it, a blank expression pasted onto his face.

We made our way out and back into his car without a word, and the journey back to the flat was conducted in silence.

I wondered if he would say anything at all, but gave up waiting by the time we reached the door of the flat.

I made my way upstairs as soon as I was through the door, and into the spare room where I had seen a bag earlier.

I grabbed it, then made for our room and pulled open my drawers, pulling out a few things, essentials. A jumper, a shirt, a pair of trousers, underwear. And the dvd’s. I picked those up too.

Then I opened his underwear drawer. He always kept some cash there, I knew. I’d seen it before, but I’d had no opportunities to spend it, no need to take it.

I took it then, not bothering to count it, just stuffing it in the bag.

I took off the shoes and crept down the stairs as quietly as I could and slipped into my old trainers.

He came out of the living room as I was opening his front door, his face a mask.

“Where are you going?” he asked levelly. I couldn’t answer. “You humiliated me tonight. In front of all those people, you humiliated me. And now you’re just going to run off. Who the hell do you think you are?” It would have been easier to open the door and run if he had shouted. But his voice just stayed flat, and calm. I opened my mouth, not knowing what to say, but his hand crossed my cheek before I even had a chance to think.

I wanted to cry, I wanted to cry, but I wouldn’t.

Now, I could hear the young me shouting, but I couldn’t understand what she was trying to say.

I was frozen, and he was slapping me again, saying something I couldn’t hear over the blood pounding in my ears.

Now. Now. NOW. Finish him, the voice urged, as he grabbed hold of my throat and slammed me against the door squeezing tighter and tighter.

I grabbed his hands in my own and clawed at them, but it was useless, it was like he didn’t even notice, and it was getting harder to breathe. I lifted my leg, and flailed, managing to catch his groin by pure chance. His grip on me loosened, as the look of shock and pain registered on his face, but then his other hand closed around my neck, and he was squeezing even tighter.

I kicked again, and again, but I missed, and he ignored my pathetic attempts, only squeezing harder and harder, till I fell limp. Then, just as I lost consciousness, he dropped me to the floor.

~

I awoke, feeling worse than a night with him had ever left me feeling before. I could feel the bruises at my throat, and there was a throbbing pain over my entire head. My ribs, my thighs, burned and ached; crushed.

It took several tries for me to get up, and knew pains made themselves known to me with each move.

But I made it finally. The bag was where I dropped it, and when I crept in the living room, he was stretched out across the chair, sleeping.

I pulled myself upstairs and dragged clothes out of my drawer, and put them on, wincing. I hated the room. I hated the whole flat, but this room was the worst.

In here he would tie me to the bedstead in my sleep and I would awake, at worst, to a belt being lashed against my skin. It had happened too many times, and he’d never given me any sort of explanation as to why he’d done it. He just did.

I pulled open another drawer and found myself in luck. There were four belts in there, and I took them all.

He was still stretched out on the chair when I came back down, and I slipped a belt around his legs and pulled it as tight as it would go. He didn’t stir. His arms would be harder to bind, they were sprawled all over the place.

But I would have to take the risk. I took hold of his wrists- gently, and pulled his arms- gently, gently- together. And then another belt went around them. He hadn’t woken. The third belt I tossed. And then I raised the last and-

-“You little bitch!” he shouted-

- I brought the belt crashing down on his arms, then his cheek, then his chest and again and again and again, striking him where it had hurt me the most.

He was roaring, truly roaring, and I had to jump back as he fell off the sofa with a crash.

I switched the belt around in my hands, and the next time I hit him, it was with the buckle, square in the jaw.

The next snap was higher up, his cheekbone, and the one after that found it’s targer: his temple.

He didn’t pass out, so I hit him again. And then a third time. He blinked, and then finally his eyes shut, just as the buckle caught his cheeks again.

I made sure he was still breathing, and that his heart was still beating.

I didn’t want to kill him.

I would not let him go that easily.