The girl with her face

Part Three

Patricia returns in the evening. Curtains twitch, and a patrol car prowls. Bedroom lights switch on. She leans against the tree, safe in its shadow, and picks at the plaster on her hand. It wasn't until she reached her room that she noticed the cut. She pats her pocket where the blood-stained photo nestles.

Patricia breathes in the cold night air, but the smouldering anger in her stomach keeps her warm. The front door opens. Simon stands in the light. His body a dark silhouette. The dog at his feet growls and stares through the darkness. Patricia sees the glint of its eyes.

Simon takes one step forward and looks across the street. 'You went too far, Patricia.' He pats the dog's head. 'But you were careless, and now he knows your smell.'

The hairs on her neck prickle, as if she is the dog with hackles raised.

'Forgetting is healthier.' He clicks his fingers, the dog trembles, muscles bunching.

Patricia runs. His laughter chases her, but there is no mirth in the sound. Her breath catches in her throat. Her feet pound the pavement. She turns a corner, heading for busier roads. Her pulse thumps in her ears. Too loud to hear her persuer. Muscles tensing in anticipation of the first tearing bite, she stumbles off the pavement. A horn blares, but she runs across the street, ignoring the screech of brakes, and heads for the light of an all-night café.

The door protests her violent entry. She slams it shut, leaning back against it, gasping. Stunned faces stare, then turn away. She blinks and stumbles to the counter.

'Coffee, milk, sugar.'

'Take out?' The server doesn't meet her eyes.

'No.' Patricia uses the counter to keep upright. She aims for the furthest table from the door, but her legs stop supporting her body before she reaches it. Any seat will do. She rests her head on her shaking hands, and her breathing slows, only to increase in speed when someone stands beside her.

'Your coffee.'

Patricia takes the mug. 'Thanks.'

The server grunts in reply.

Patricia pulls the photo from her pocket and smooths the creases. A baby in its mother's arms. Is that a crease or a scar? She peers closer, wiping off the smears of blood, and pushing up her sleeve to compare the thin line. Her neck prickles and she glances at the window. Simon is staring at her, his face creased with anger. The dog is by his side. She stares back, and small black spots swirl in the air. He nods, a cruel smile grows, he waggles good bye with his fingers, turns, walks past the door, and down the street.

Patricia shivers as if ice cubes slide down her spine.

Her coffee is cold. The server wipes the table with a grey cloth and prises the mug from Patricia's fingers.

'There are plenty of homeless shelters.' She sighs. 'You can't stay here all night.'

Patricia frowns. 'I have a place to stay.'

The server shrugs and moves on to the next table.

Patricia gathers strands of courage and walks to the door, opening it with care and peering both ways. There are no men with dogs outside. She shrugs up her hood, and walks, hesitating at every junction, stiffening when a dog barks. An off-license beckons.

One drink will stop the ache. One bottle will blur the pain.

She recognises these as Simon's words, and dashes away from temptation and back to the hostel. Empty-handed.

The light in the hallway outside her room is broken, the glass crunches under her feet. She fumbles for the lock, and forces the key in, looking over her shoulder at the shadowy corners and doors. Her cold fingers are as stiff as the key. She leans on the door and it moves inwards. Frowning she pushes the door open and reaches for the light switch. Light flickers on. The room is empty. She tugs the key, but has to turn it to pull it out. Shaking her head, she slams the door behind her. Leaning against it's flimsy protection, she rubs life back into her fingers.

Three steps from the door and she is in the kitchen. The dishcloth is on the floor, a spoon in the sink. Her stomach clenches. Paranoia. She flicks on the kettle, and the everyday action settles her anxiety, until she opens the fridge to grab the milk. It's on the wrong side of the juice bottle. Her hands tremble, and white drops spit onto the floor. She places the milk carton next to the kettle, and with a mounting fear, forces herself to open the bathroom door. It is empty. She whimpers with relief, adrenaline draining her body of its last speck of energy.

Patricia wraps her tingling fingers around the hot mug, and allows the coffee aroma to seep into her soul. It was stupid to come here to remember. She sips the scalding drink, and her body relaxes. She sips more, enjoying a euphoric moment, a lifting of the darkness. Who needs alcohol? Who needs the past? She stares into the empty mug. More coffee would be good. She stands, but the room spins and Patricia slumps to the floor.

She remembers Simon's voice. 'Special milk to help you with feeding her, special K. Drink it all. And take these.' His arms around her shoulders, coaxing her to drink, watching as she swallows vitamin pills. 'They will make you feel better. It's just the baby blues.'

Her eyes slam open. She drags her wavering body to the fridge and pulls open the door. On the shelf. Smeared in jam. A message. 'Goodbye.'

A floodgate opens and memories drown her. Depression, tears, pills, pain. She remembers shouting, throwing things, being hit.

She crouches, wraps her arms around her legs and rocks.

It was all lies. Simon made her feel this way. Simon drugged her, abused her, and stole her memories.

Patricia crawls for miles, and reaches the bathroom. She rams her fingers in her mouth. Vomit burns her throat, and tears pour from her body. Her hands slip on the edge of the toilet, and her knees hit the floor. It doesn't hurt.

It won't hurt until the morning, when she won't remember what happened. When she will believe his story, and take more tonics and pills. No, she shakes her head and the room spins, that was her past.

Another memory burst in her brain. Simon leaving her at a clinic, telling someone she had turned to alcohol when their baby died, his voice cracking with tears.

She sobs. A baby, soft and innocent, changes into an eighteen-year-old with her face. Her baby never died. He lied.

Anger gives her the strength to pull herself up on the sink, and turn the tap on full. She opens her mouth and gulps water until her stomach sloshes. Her fingers know what to do. Yellow bile splashes on the lino floor. Her stomach cramps, begging her to stop remembering.

She sees his smile through the café window, his waving, his message in the fridge. Had he meant for her to forget, permanently?

Her mind clears. The lock on her front door. It was not stiff, it was broken. Fear crashes back through her in ever increasing waves. She drags her leaden body to the kitchen, pulls a dining room chair by its scratched leg and wedges it under the handle.

Curling into a foetal position on the sofa her lips remember how to smile. It is weak, but will become stronger now she knows her baby is alive, and she is not to blame.