All That We Had

I can hear the radio playing softly. I strain to hear what it is – some political programme on radio 4, I think. I can't be sure. I can vaguely make out a foreign accent – Arabic sounding. An interview, a sound-bite. Someone important has died, another country in crisis; but it is too faint for me to make sense of it.

I lay in the darkness, on the grey, coarse, slightly damp blanket, and close my eyes tight to try and concentrate on the radio. To try and block out the memories that are whirling around my head, dancing before my eyes, in this inky blackness.

Whilst someone important was dying in a foreign land; you were waiting for me. Waiting for me to pass you in the twilight. Waiting to reach out and grab me roughly around the throat and drag me into the scrubby woodland in the quietest part of the village where you knew I walked each night on my way home from work.

Whilst news reports of the death of someone important were starting to trickle in through newswires; you were on top of me, one hand over my mouth, the other tearing at my clothing, ripping my blouse; pushing me roughly into the cold, wet, earth. Quietly, harshly, hissing to me all my wrongs.

As foreign correspondents hurriedly mobilised to head to the area where someone important had died; you defiled me with glass. As I struggled to breathe beneath the weight of your hand on my throat, as I squirmed and fought against both you and the brambles ripping into my now bare legs, you fucked me with the glass dildo.

You couldn't fuck me. You wouldn't fuck me. Not after what I had done. I didn't deserve the feel of you inside me, your body pressed against mine, the smell and taste of you I yearned for. I deserved the icy, unyielding hardness of the glass battering inside me, bruising me, reminding me of my crime.

As foreign correspondents began their live reports on the death of someone important, you dragged my limp, bleeding body into your arms. I reached out to you, to hold you, to grab your coat, to nestle into the warmth and the familiar smells I loved; you pushed me away and forced me onto my feet. There would be no protection, no healing warmth. It was not yet over.

As news of the death of someone important began changing the World, you threw my naked body into the boot of the car; onto the grey, scratchy blanket, cuffing my hands behind my back.

Our eyes met for a second or two. What did you see in mine?

In yours, I saw impenetrable coldness.

Hate.

I want to move enough so I can kick out, so you'll hear me, but I can't; it's too small, too cramped in here. I can feel blood trickling down my legs, where the blood hits another scratch, it stings. I want to talk to you, I want this to stop.

There are thousands of people on the streets of a foreign country, mourning.

We've played these games before many, many times. Fear, edge-play. Boundaries pushed, chasms leapt, the-oh-so-sweet rush of sheer terror and adrenalin before the stars rain down and I am back, safely in your arms where nothing and no-one can hurt me. The smell of you as I huddle, shaking, enveloped in your warmth; the sound of you singing softly to me as you rock me in your arms like an injured child; the way your eyes dance with kindness as you hand me tea. The hours that follow so gentle, so mundane; a normal couple sharing talk of childhood recollections, of troubles at work, of cabbages, and kings.

Only this time, this is not another game.

I had to leave you. I had no choice. When I opened the email from her, I knew the games had to stop for all our sakes. I didn't want to leave, I promise you that. I promised you I wouldn't leave, but that was before I knew about her.

I hear the gentle, rhythmic tick-tick-tick of the indicator. The car stops.

Muffled footsteps, and the click of the boot's lock. I look up into your face. It's snowing, and large, soft flakes whirl around your head, settle on your shoulders. You look older, resigned.

Not hate. Sadness.

I try to speak, nothing comes out but a hoarse croak and I realise that I am thirsty. I attempt a smile, instead, but my face feels frozen. Perhaps I am colder than I thought. You remove the cuffs, placing them slowly, carefully in your rucksack. I hadn't noticed the rucksack earlier. You must have left it in the car.

'Get out' you say, offering your hand to me.

I take your hand and obey, my bare feet flinching away from the slushy gravel beneath them. I shiver when you drop my hand, hoping you'll pull me to you. You don't, you turn your back on me and walk away.

Where are we? It's a lay-by somewhere – Heavens knows where we are, I've no idea in which direction we have been driving or for how long. Long enough for thousands of mourners to line the streets of a foreign country, certainly. I follow you into the darkness, focusing hard on the beige of your sweater so as not to lose you here, in this strange place, my feet stumbling through freezing puddles.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, I find myself pushed against a tree. My head bangs hard against the trunk and my legs buckle.

'Why did you leave?' you demand, your hand, once again, around my throat.

I tell you. I tell you everything. I tell you about the email from her. How she wanted to make things work with you again. That she regretted the divorce. That she was jealous of me, her best friend, and our relationship. I tell you how I cried for you, for us, for all that we had, when I made the decision to leave. That I want you both to try again, because I know you still love her and would forgive her for leaving you for him. That it was the hardest thing I've ever done. That I cannot carry on keeping you from her when it is still her that you love, have always loved, will always love.

'You promised me, when you submitted to me, that you would never leave until I told you to go'. You are shaking me by the shoulders now, my frozen, naked shoulders.

I bow my head. I acknowledge this truth, this promise I made to you.

'You will never leave.'

From the rucksack you pull three lengths of rope. You tie me to the tree. We've played this game before, many, many times. I close my eyes as you force the scarf into my mouth and tie it around the back of my head. I'm too confused, too exhausted, too cold to fight. It's just a game. Just a game. It will all be over soon.

You lift your rucksack. You kiss the top of my head, and stroke my cheek with an ice cold hand. Our eyes meet for a moment. Not hate, but sadness.

I close my eyes, I try to imagine that I am somewhere warm, somewhere filled with sunlight, in an attempt to stop the shivering which engulfs me in waves. I don't hear your footsteps retreating.

A single gunshot cracks through the trees, snapping open my eyes. Sickness rises in my throat.

It's not a game.

As the pale, morning sun rises, they will find you. As thousands more mourners throng the streets of a foreign country, they will find you. Covered by the fat, soft flakes of February snow, the bleeding from your head long since stopped, the handgun at your side. They will find me, too, but there are hours to wait before morning.

I am no longer cold. I feel nothing. I am floating, I am a child again. I am reliving my life as people say you do. I am waiting for the brightest light, the one they promise, as the snow settles gently, soundlessly, on my bound nakedness.

I will never leave.