|Putting the Rubbish Out
Author: LucyWestmacott PM
Domestic Violence throught the eyes of those present. This is my first piece on this sight so be nice! Warning: contains violence and bleeped out swearing. This is in no way based on anyone i know and isnt intentionally fictionalising an incident i have witnessed. If only Domestic Abuse was just in storiesRated: Fiction T - English - Drama/Family - Words: 1,005 - Reviews: 1 - Published: 12-07-12 - id: 3080827
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
I have lived here for as long as I can remember, nothing eventful ever happening. I moved in to these blocks of flats with Frank, my husband when we were teenagers. Well, I was nineteen, Frank was about twenty. I have lived on three of the four floors, you know. We lived at the top when we were first married. We lived on the third floor growing up with our Lisa, she's thirty now, thirty one in a few weeks, married and everything. And now I am on the second floor. Closer to the ground. Not as many stairs. It's because I am getting old, can't climb stairs like I used to. Like I said, nothing unusual ever happened. As my Frank used to say, ordinarily average. Yeah. Ordinarily average. I fancy a cuppa. The question is, Tea or Coffee?
Oh God. I've done it now. I've only gone and done it. He told him. He told me everything. And now he is angry. I hate it when he is angry. Even more when he is drunk and angry. Here's the door. Where's the key? That Woman over the way is snooping again, nosy witch. Always on the hunt for gossip. Oh God the key won't fit. Here he comes. I can here him. I've got the door open. Where to hide. Where to hide. Here he is, shouting at me again. He's going to hit me again, I know it. It wasn't my fault I swear. But he won't listen. He never listens. Oh God. He's grabbed me by the hair. It hurts. A lot. It's all a blur. We are outside the flat now. He's still screaming. Still yelling. I start to cry but he doesn't notice. He never does. Oh God he only looks like that when he is about to…
It was that young woman from across the hall. She has lived there with her boyfriend for six months now. He seems alright. Polite lad, tall, solemn but nice, always ready to do any jobs that I need doing, you know, like painting the ceiling or fixing the hole in the roof of my bedroom that let in the spiders. Yeah, nice lad. I hear a second pair of footsteps coming up the stairs. I didn't want to be nosey so I went inside and watched from the window. As I am going in I see him. I call out, to ask if everything is alright. He shouts back of course, he is just putting the rubbish out. Then he disappears inside.
B****, B****. She deserved it. B**** It was her fault. I told her. B****. And now she is getting what she deserves. B****. People say it's wrong to hit women, I agree, If they've done nothing wrong. But this B****, she deserves it. Yeah, she deserves it. B****
He has stopped. Why has he stopped? I open my good eye to see that I am alone in the hall. I slowly lower my arms from where they were wrapped over my head. I am shaking so badly I can't get up. My leg hurts and there is already a bruise starting. And on my arm. At least he didn't get my face again. It bruised for weeks. My cheeks were different colours! He has ripped my top. Oh God, he's back. Why has he got my suitcase?
I sipped my Hot Chocolate gently as it is still very warm. I could never get the hang of it. It didn't help my Frank kept messing about with it. Ah well. At least it keeps me warm. I can hear screaming. As I creak to my feet, I see the nice lad from across the way outside. I wonder why he is throwing his girlfriends clothes everywhere. Oh that's not nice! He's just slapped her, poor thing. Maybe I should go and have a word. Although, what could I do?
B****. She deserved it. B****. It's not my fault. I like a beer now and again, but I'm not an alcoholic. Wouldn't touch them with a barge pole, me. She was a nice girl, the one I met at the bar. Not this sorry excuse for a B**** lying in front of me. Lazy. That's what she is, Lazy. I go out everyday to work, what does she do? She stays at home with her feet up watching endless C*** on the telly. I'm the Man of The House, me. Yeah, Man of The House.
I look up, my cheeks still stinging. After everything I have done for him. I cooked and I cleaned, I polished and preened. And this is how he treats me? Like a piece of something from the bottom of his shoe. I don't deserve him. He is a nice, kind, gentle, hardworking man. Well, he was. I can't believe it. He came right out and did it, with me watching! He knew I was, he just refused to acknowledge me so he could make a fuss. I can't believe he kissed her. She wasn't even pretty. I reach up and rub the small bald bit on the side of my head. The hair from which it came, was pulled out. By him. It will grow back. It always does. Eventually.
I have finished my hot chocolate now and I am feeling rather sleepy. I wonder how everything is over the way. It's gone quiet now. He went in and slammed the door a few minutes ago. Poor thing, she is sat there, crying her eyes out. Maybe I should go over? Well, I don't really know her, it would be rude. She gathering her clothes up now. Look at her, bless. I wonder if she will be ok? I should probably ask. But then, Corrie is on in a minute.