Unspoken Damage

by Araya Wass-Spencer

Image credit: Ye Jinghan on Unsplash

Grey. Everything is grey. The walls. The floor. The desk. The chair. My clothes. Grey. I don’t know how long I've been here; there’s no clock in this room, and no one has been in to see me recently. All I have is a flimsy cup of water to save me from dehydration. Clinical lights hang above me, shining directly into my eyes, causing a headache to form in my temples. I wish someone would hurry up and get this over with. I know what I did, and I know why I did it; they don’t need to whittle me down into giving a confession. I made the phone call myself. I’m the reason I'm sat here right now; I practically turned myself in. After what feels like five years of waiting, the door finally swings open.

“Miss Martin, is it?” says the man who just entered. 

“Yes, sir, but please call me Alyssa” 

“Very well, Alyssa, I’m DCI Wilson, and I assume you know why you’re here today.” I nod.

The large man sits down across from me. I can smell the coffee and cigarettes on his breath from over here. His shirt is too small; the middle buttons are buckling against the size of his stomach, revealing way more than I would ever want to see. His hair is grey, shocker I know, and appears to be running away to his eyebrows and nostrils. He looks me up and down, trying to judge my character.

“Now, Alyssa, we both know what you did, what I want to know is why you did it. Can you tell me that, please?” 

I shuffle in my seat. This man must've just eaten pure coffee grounds. I can feel my brain buzzing every time he opens his mouth to speak. These lights are doing him no favours either. I can see the sweat pooling around his armpits and the years of neglecting SPF on his forehead. It's time to reveal my truth.

“Short answer, because I had to.” 

I still remember the day I met him like it was yesterday. I was freshly sixteen, he was seventeen. Two dumb college students, both inexperienced, both desperate. I made the first move, well, kind of. I told my friend who told his friend who told him, so in essence, I told him. It was very awkward to begin with; neither one of us knew what to do, but eventually we just clicked. Everything became easy, and we became inseparable. Within a month, we were officially together, he’d met my mum, I’d met his parents. I truly thought I had hit the jackpot first try; I thought he was my soulmate. We occasionally had little fights, like I would forget that he told me things already, or I would forget to remind him of dates and such. Silly little issues.

By the time we had been dating for three months, I had lost all my friends and merged into his friend group. He told me they were just jealous of me and that I didn't need them; all I needed was him. I believed him. I had so much fun with my new friends. We’d go out to parties and go to the cinema, and I finally felt like a teenager. I had found my people. I had spent so long being an outcast and being boring; I was finally beginning to shine, or so I thought.

In reality, I was losing myself, mentally and physically, very quickly. I just didn’t notice it at the time. My style had changed completely; he didn’t like alternative girls, so I became basic. He didn't want me to be smarter than him, so I started failing my classes. He didn't want me to be friends with anyone he wasn’t, so I cut them all off. He didn't want me to be fat, so I lost too much weight. I did everything so I would be perfect for this man, and it still wasn’t enough. My friends told me it was normal; it's how a relationship works.

“You’re being silly, Alyssa, he loves you.” 

Then things got weird. His mum got really controlling over us seeing each other. We would make plans for the weekends, and he’d never show. There was always an excuse. 

“My grandparents are visiting.” 

“Mum needs help in the garden” 

“Mum punched granny and has been arrested.” 

Then an apology would follow soon after the excuse, so I could never stay mad at him for long. By this point, we had been dating for around a year. There was one thing I wanted more than anything in the world. A sleepover with my boyfriend. I had a brand-new double bed, a newly decorated bedroom, an array of DVDs and snacks. It was arranged; my mum was happy with it (she’s always been chill), he just had to convince his mum. I was shocked when he said she agreed. I was ecstatic. The day came, everything was ready, and I sat waiting. He was thirty minutes late. No text. An hour late. No text. Two hours late. Nothing. By this point, I'm panicking. He’s dead, he’s been kidnapped. I'm ringing and ringing trying to see if he’s ok. Ping.

She’s dead.

Who’s dead? Are you ok?

Mum. No.

“So, his mum was deceased?” DCI Wilson said, interrupting my trance 

“Yes, he told me that she had committed suicide, that’s why he hadn’t come over.” 

DCI Wilson leant back in his chair, rubbing his temples; these lights must also be giving him a headache. 

I spent the rest of what was supposed to be our sleepover trying to comfort him, which was expectedly hard. Especially when I also didn't know how to feel, I was sad and selfishly angry. Then I was hurt when he said it was my fault. Not hurt, distraught. I was a monster; I had driven this woman to suicide. The next few weeks were tough; his life seemed to be falling apart. His cat was run over. Then his dad had a mental breakdown and ran out, saying he was also going to commit suicide. I was a wreck trying to hold my boyfriend together whilst battling my own issues below the surface. 

One of the most pivotal moments in my life is this. I got the dreaded ‘We need to talk’ text from my mum. I'm panicking, thinking of everything I've ever done wrong in my seventeen years of life. She meets me at the train station as she does most days after college, and we drive to Farmfoods of all places. In the car, my life came crumbling down around me. I had been fed lies for a whole year of my life. Who was I at this point? No one had died. No one was hit or arrested. They just had a psychopath for a son.

I banged down his front door and was greeted by a ghost. His mum. She said nothing and just called for her son. The part of this messed-up situation that disappoints me the most is myself. I, for some godforsaken reason, stayed with him for another year. When everyone in our friend group found out what he had done, they turned on him and cut him off and subsequently me. They said it was all my fault and I deserved it. I deserved the emotional abuse. I knew I had done nothing wrong, and I was left feeling confused. Why had my so-called friends turned on me? Do you know what that does to a seventeen-year-old girl? I'll tell you, it sends her down a very dark spiral in which the only person she has is her abuser.

“Did you ever contact the police with this?” DCI Wilson asked. He was sitting up now, leaning in.

“No. I didn't think I could. We were teenagers.” I could feel the tears welling up. 

DCI Wilson shook his head before stepping out for what I can assume is a cigarette. I hadn't processed most of what I am telling him, but now I've started, I can't stop. It’s quite nice to have someone to finally tell everything to. I’ve told my mum parts and friends knew bits, but no one except me and him knew everything that happened behind closed doors. DCI Wilson returns, yep, definitely a cigarette, takes a sip of his stone-cold coffee before resuming his position.

“You said it got worse from here. Tell me about it.” 

There are parts I forgot to mention earlier that will become important now. A bit about me, I'm very independent and self-assured, I've always been an overachiever, and no one can tell me that I can't do something, ask my mum. So how did I let a boy control me? I didn’t. I didn't agree with what I was being made to do and made to act like. He obviously didn’t like that. I can’t remember the first time he was physical towards me, but I know it was early in the relationship. Thankfully, I've always been a clumsy kid, so hiding bruises was easy. I dreaded and wished for the day someone would notice; he’d be so angry, but I'd finally be free. No one ever did. After the lies were exposed, I didn't believe a word that came out of his mouth, so all the abuse turned to physical and verbal. Constantly being belittled and told I'm not good enough, I'm stupid, I'm a waste of space, I'm overweight. I was a shell of myself. I had nothing left. And when I thought it couldn't get much worse, it did.

I remember being so excited to finish college and finally leave. I'd have a reason to break up, and I'd be far away. If I had a pound for every time I was wrong in this situation, I could've moved to Australia. 

“What did you study at university?” 

“Art.” I responded, “Art was my outlet, in many ways.” 

Drawing was the only time I could let my mind rest. I would still be in protection mode, but I could express the real me for a little while. Art became especially important to me when things somehow got a lot worse again. Moving away for university was a blessing and a nightmare intertwined. I had my independence, I had new friends who didn't know the old me, I could be alternative again and I hardly saw him. But I did see him occasionally, because I was scared, and he was still my boyfriend. I hated when he visited. No one was around to hear the screams, the pleading, the cries. I was alone with a monster who thought he had the right to my body. Resisting was pointless because it would happen either way. I thought it was better to conserve my energy in case I needed it. Some days, I prayed he’d just hurry up and end it, end my suffering. He would come close to me, passing out, but never too far to where he could be in serious trouble.

Halloween has always been my favourite day of the year since I was a little girl. My mum would encourage my weirdness to come out. I was so excited for my first Halloween at university; we had a group costume planned out and a schedule for the night. I was also especially excited for this night because I knew I was ending it. I was going to be free at last, or so I thought. 

“So, you ended your relationship?” DCI Wilson asked with a hopeful look. 

“I did.” 

It didn’t stop. He knew where I lived. At first, it was ok, we were going to try and be friends, for some reason. Then it started again. The coercion, the gaslighting, the manipulation. I couldn’t escape. I couldn’t move on. I'd be spammed with calls at all hours of the day. I tried to block him, but he’d find me again. I was too scared to go to the police. He knew where I lived. I needed it to stop. It was him or me.

So, I made my plan. I was going to end it. I was going to break the cycle.

“And you know the rest.” I nodded towards his papers on the table. Sheets of evidence against me. The events of that night were in front of him. Pictures. Bags of evidence. I knew I hadn’t been careful; I didn’t want to be. I didn't do this to not be caught. I was desperate.

Image credit: Mayank Singh on Unsplash

I knew it was going to be that night. I could feel it in the air. I had a fire burning in my stomach and anger in my heart. I invited him over to get the rest of his stuff, some t-shirts he’d left. I had practised on the silly stuffed animals he had given me. I destroyed them. I stole their lives from behind their plastic eyes. Just as I was going to do to him.

Part of me didn't want to do it. I wished things had changed. I wished for two years. They never did. I knew they would never change. I knew he would never change. I couldn’t let this happen to another girl. I had to end it. 

“When he came over, he pulled the same tricks. The coercion. The control. I was scared. I was angry. I lost it. I went crazy. Every ounce of pain and anger I had felt at the hands of this man was being pummelled back into him” 

I thought I'd feel free after I had done it. I didn’t. Yes, he could never hurt me again, but in a way, he had won. He would never have to face justice for what he had done to me for all those years. I would be the one sat in the courtroom awaiting my punishment. Yet being trapped in a cell felt like the more appealing option than knowing he was still out there.

“I don’t regret what I did for a second.” 

DCI Wilson was scribbling in his notes. Probably writing that I'm crazy, I'm twisted, I'm a monster. Then he stopped writing. He was crying. He quietly stands up and leaves the room. I'm alone again.

I didn’t realise, but my tears were also flowing; I couldn’t stop them. I have finally told my story. Relief. After so many years of torture, this is what freedom feels like.

***

Araya Wass-Spencer

Araya Wass-Spencer is an English and Creative Writing 3rd year student currently studying at Falmouth University (UK).