Blue Comes Through

Chapter One

Just over three months later, I'm looking at my reflection in the mirror again. I look similar. I have a black eye, a split lip and a cut on my forehead. I'd been holding a glass when I fell. It had smashed and I'd been unable to avoid it as I hit the floor.

This time, I can see his reflection too. His navy eyes are closed, his dark hair flopping forward on his forehead. His high cheekbones are flushed; his mouth set in almost a grimace in his thin face. His grip is firm on my hips as he thrusts into me from behind. He called it a farewell fuck and little did he know there was irony in that phrase. He was due to leave for a conference in Chicago for a week and it was essential he was 'sorted out' before he left.

I wonder absently if his eyes are closed, so that he can avoid looking at me. I have stopped wondering if my cuts and bruises cause him any guilt. He never shows any remorse. In fact, he never refers to them at all. They are ignored and he carries on as normal, seemingly oblivious, until the next time.

He has hit me three times, since I made the decision to leave. Each time I have visited the police, in order that they could log the attacks and take statements. I refused to press charges, much to their annoyance and frustration. But I don't want the trauma of prosecuting my baby's father. I go to ensure that evidence is available, if ever I need it at some point in the future.

Each time, the police have been kind and efficient. They have urged me to leave immediately. To them, it's a simple decision. A place can be arranged in a hostel or woman's refuge. I didn't need to even go home. But for me, that's not enough. The distance the refuge would provide, is not enough.

The last attack was just last night. His shirts weren't ironed quite to his satisfaction and I had been an hour late back from a friend's. I knew what was coming as soon I had got home, but he'd waited until Will had been bathed and put to bed, before he had struck.

I always find that delay more menacing than if he just immediately lashed out. I wonder if the delay is all part of his twisted plan; that he enjoys my tension as I desperately try and keep things as normal as possible for Will, going through his bed time routine, playing with him, bathing him, giving him his bedtime bottle, but all with a sickening pit of fear in my stomach, and with hands that shake, dreading what's to come.

We had been up early today, due to the early flight. He had pushed me against the basin, and flipped up the back of my nightdress. There had been no foreplay, so this is painful and I'm already sore. I press my hot face against the cold porcelain of the edge of the basin, closing my eyes and gritting my teeth as I pray for it to be over.

I can't remember when I last enjoyed sex. There is a sexual element to his control and I find this more unbearable than the beatings. I feel desperate and degraded when my choice no longer exists and my enjoyment has become irrelevant. Mercifully, today, it is short; a selfish, bestial coupling. With a groan and one last thrust, he comes, his fingers digging into my hips. I promise myself that this is the last time. This is the very last time he will touch me in this way.

I have planning towards this date for weeks. Ever since I made the decision to leave, I've been waiting for the right time to make my departure. A whole week apart, with the Atlantic between us, will give me the distance to make the move. By the time he is home, the trail should be cold. He'd told me about this conference six weeks ago and I had been lining up my little row of dominos ever since, plotting and planning, carefully putting each one in place.

Once he withdraws, he heads for the shower without a word. I make my way downstairs and use the bathroom there, to freshen up, before making coffee. It's only just after four o'clock, but I have no intention of going back to bed.

I unload the dishwasher, as the kettle boils, mentally compiling the list of things to do in my head. I hadn't dared write anything down over the last few weeks and there were no lists or contacts in my phone. I'd created a new email address and had learnt to delete my internet history and then recreate it with innocuous web browsing, so his daily surveillance of my phone and computer had not revealed my plans.