Hold me tight

The door opens, then loudly slams, followed by the noise of a key in the lock…
She is now wandering in the room. Her breathing is heavy, her footsteps are purposeful. She knows what she wants, and so do I. She’s rummaging about in the whole room; I can hear it- clearly, despite its soft echo. She's very cautious, but as she walks to the nightstand next to the window, her shoe hits one of the toys on the floor. The noise makes both of us jump. She stops, then gets on her knees and gropes around under the bed. Does she understand? Still hidden, not breathing, I know her hand is going to grab me anyway...

    She's getting closer to me but she can't see me- I still have a chance. Of course, I’m staying perfectly still but she's getting closer, and closer to my face. Her hand, randomly tapping the parquet, does not find anything but dust and abandoned toys. She doesn't feel safe, that's obvious. With each finger tap on the floor, finding nothing, I can almost hear a sigh of relief. At her age, she still believes in monsters under the bed, but I'm not the monster, and she should know that. That's why she's there, looking for me.

Suddenly, she touches my arm. A cringe, a contained shout and then, nothing more.

She whispers:

    'It's me. Don't be scared. I won't hurt you.”

I know she won't. Well, sometimes she does but it's okay. She gently grasps my arm and slowly pulls me out from my hideout. Sitting on the floor, hunched up between the bed and the nightstand, she faces the door. She places me on her thigh, grabs my head and puts it against her chest. Her heart is beating fast, and she holds me tight against her. Her hands, still firmly holding my head, are trembling like a leaf. I’ve never experienced a hug so reassuring; so comforting- for whom it is the most, I cannot say- but it truly is.

    'It's over. It's over. It’s me. It's your Mum.”

As her hands slip down from my head onto my face, she gently takes hold of my cheeks and maneuvers my head to ensure she is looking directly into my eyes.  I notice her pure face, marked by fresh scars, bruises and hot tears. She's completely disfigured, so much so, that I can barely recognise her.

    The blue of her eyes matches her bruises. The blood on her mouth is the exact shade of her lips. Her flushed, puffy cheeks and runny nose testify to her deep suffering.

    'Is it him again?'

I try to talk but no sound escapes my paralysed lips- and yet, she replies with a shy nod and smiles at me nervously .

‘I fell off my bike again’ she says, with a fake smile.

It’s been three years and she’s still giving this excuse to people who ask about her scars and bruises, and yet, she doesn’t have a bike to fall from. Barely credible, but until now, it’s always worked!

I’m used to seeing her pretty face covered in tears; blood and fear, but her injured mouth always has a smile for me. She's such a good person- but he's not. I know he's been abusing her for months, for years, several times a week, especially when he’s having ‘one of his bad days’, as he often is. Slamming doors, flying plates, trembling walls, the barking dog... I don't know how the neighbours can pretend not to hear anything; they must know. The apartment is located on the eleventh floor, and the walls aren't thick. Neither is her skin- nothing truly is at home, except his belt- she can firmly vouch for that. He’s never really touched me, he’s always transferring his anger directly to her, but when he does, it’s purely to make her sad- to harm her, to punish her! He obviously knows that she cares more about me than he does. Sometimes I wish I could take the hits for her, her pity for me is truly less harrowing to see than her physical pain.

All day long, there has been a lingering smell of tobacco in the flat. Furniture, curtains, and clothes reek of it- so much so, that the walls and ceiling are turning yellow. It’s so noticeable, that it almost hides the smell of alcohol, spilt all over the stained sofa and the carpet. Usually, it’s whisky- the cheapest but still strong spirit. When it is quicker and cheaper to get drunk, life is better for him. Weed is also so ingrained in our life that a drug detection dog could smell our flat from the other side of the town. But the reason why he does not might be because, the whole building smells, the whole city does. This is where we live. Unemployed husbands, beating their wives and children, cheating on their wives, and spending all their benefits in pubs, on takeaways and on cigarettes. The building is an old council estate where 89 families like us live. This is all we can afford- well, this is rather what the benefits can afford. It simply becomes unbearable sometimes, and  I can’t help but dream of our escape.