Write a shot story entilted Freedom
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I’m scared. I’ve always been scared. Dad told me I was a scared sort of girl. He said I never played on the big things in the playground, or enjoyed stuff when there was too much noise around. He’s never said it, but I think he thinks that’s why I married Steve.
Because Steve scares me and maybe that’s what I want. I want to be scared. That’s what dad thinks. I love my dad, but sometimes I hate him. He has a way with words that you know he doesn’t mean but still cut like razor wire. Except, I think maybe he does mean them.
‘You know, Tricia, you really don’t have the right build for ballet. Why not try something more suited to a big girl?’
‘Come on now, Tricia, you know painting isn’t ever going to get you anywhere in life. You have to be really good to make a go of it.’
‘Tricia, please, stop being ridiculous. He never loved you. Why would he?’
I’ve got a list. A long list. I started writing them down when I was nine, just because it was only way to get them out of my head. Otherwise they’d creep around in there and stop me sleeping. They still do, sometimes, but not as often.
Steve isn’t much different. He’s subtler with the way he speaks. He doesn’t attack as often and, when he does, he sneaks it in around compliments.
‘Tricia, this meal’s delicious. Is it the one you copied from Sally?’
‘You look lovely, darling, I can barely see your stomach.’
That last one was only last week. I bit my lip, same way I’ve always done, and got changed. Not that it helped. He still flirted with the waitress and smiled at the woman on the table opposite and managed nothing more than a ‘hmmm’ when I told him was miserable at work. I almost left the ‘at work’ off, but realised it would have elicited exactly the same response.
But I’m rambling. I’m not doing a good job of explaining why I’m scared right now. I’m scared because I’m sitting in our flat with my legs pulled up to my chest, my jogging pants on, and a small suitcase packed and ready to go. I’m scared because I’m leaving. And I’m scared because I have no way of knowing what Steve’s going to say.
My counselor says this is the only thing to do. She says it’s either this or go mad and I don’t want to go mad. I’m sure dad would have something to say about that, like, I was born mad so I won’t notice the difference. But I know I’m not mad. Because if I was mad, I wouldn’t be so scared.
He’s home in four minutes. I can set my watch by his routine and sometimes do. Four minutes until I tell him I no longer love him. Four minutes until my life changes forever. Four short minutes. I swallow and take another large sip of the wine beside me. Probably not the best choice, but I needed it. My hands are still shaking, but not as bad as they were.
I should have done this five years ago. I should have done this the first time he hit me. That was the point of no return, really. The moment his hand struck my cheek I should have walked out and not come back. But I was scared. I haven’t ever lived alone except for a year at uni and even then, I was in halls. That’s not living alone, not really.