Return journey

I see her from where I' standing - I know where to look.  Her palor barely contrasted with the whitewashed walls behind her, and her skinny knees tremble against her chest.  The blue, flowery pyjamas don't do anything to take away the feeling that I'm looking at a child rather than the 16 year old I know her to be.

Dry eyes stare unblinking at the phone beside her, but her restless hands kept pulling at the spikes of brown hair that had started to grow back in angry tufts. I can't see from where I'm standing, but I know she's biting the inside of her lip.  Hard enough to hurt, but stopping just short of breaking the skin.  My tongue finds the patch of scarred skin behind my front teeth - a tangible reminder for the times when she forgot to stop herself from biting too hard.

Suddenly she springs into life, jolts from the sofa and sprints towards the window, cowering so she cannot be seen from the outside.  I feel the relief washing over her when it's an unknown car pulling up outside the block of flats.  But it reminds her that she has to think quickly - if she gets caught outside her room, then... then what?  What would it be today?  The beatings no longer affect her too badly, and she thinks that's why they have been getting less frequent.  Would she lose her right to her weekly shower for another week?  Lose the blanket at night?  Despite the hot climate, the nights can get freezing and sleep is a luxury on the  best of days.

More likely that her daily bowl of boiled vegetables would be denied.  She chews her lip in a frenzy now, she knows she has to get back because she won't be able to go without food for another day without begging.  And she really doesn't want to beg.

Her eyes move back to the phone, the reason she is taking the risk.  The hands settle on her knees.  The dim gleam of fight fades from her eyes.  She gets up without touching the phone - should she go via the kitchen and see if she can grab a handful of uncooked rice from the pot, the only uncounted food in the house? No, she feels too weak to deal with the pains it gave her last time she tried.

With slumped shoulders she limps back across the tiled floor.  Why is she limping?  Had the nerve in my left leg already been damaged at this point?  No, that was later... it must be a remnant from another unmemorable kick.  One last look back at the phone... I feel her thoughts.  "One person.  There must be one person I could call.  One person in the whole wide world that would answer me when I need help.  How can this be that I cannot think of one person I can call.  One person who would help.  Just one person... There is no-one."

Not one person to call.

The sound of another car approaching makes her speed up her steps. Silently, she closed the door to the small box room behind her without looking through the bars on her window.  She doesn't want to see life going on outside - she has no part in it. Her body collapses onto the white metal framed bed.  The tears still don't come as she picks up the rough fabric and wraps around her ankles - first her left, then tighten the loop until it hurts to allow the fabric to stretch enough to get her right one through the other shackle.  Then pull both loops until the tension is even... she no longer has to think about it, her limbs know how to get themselves in the position they were before the Stepmother left - as always, without saying how long for. 

The cheerfully red, flowery fabric strips, that used to be a dress before... a long time ago, are now wrapped around her wrists, slightly suspending them from the pillow-less mattress. She can already sense the loss of feeling in the tips of her fingers - she should wriggle them, but why bother.

A quick mental check... did she touch anything, move anything, leave anything in a different position?  No, she only sat on the sofa.  She didn't even touch the phone - there was no-one to call.

No-one to call.

Suddenly a loud voice slices through the painful silence:" still remain seated whilst your tutors will go back to their rooms to get ready.  YEAR 8s!  You know that you should be waiting in silence until you are dismissed!"

My knees are locked, I can't move, but I must move.  There is no air in the big hall, no time to think, and I know I can't rely on the handrail for support, it's loose and noisy.  One step.  One step.  One step.  Head up.  I bite the inside of my lip the way I learnt too many years ago to stop the tears.  One step.  One step. Neck, shoulders, back, up, up, one step, and one step.

As soon as the door falls shut behind me, I feel a physical push, my vision blurs, and my lungs protest. One step, think, where can you go.  Toilets? No, there are people.  Only the secluded corner behind a book self where I can hide - quick.  Kneeling down I bite my knuckles.  Must not make a sound, else I be found.  For a minute I give in to the feelings - later I would be asked which feelings.  All of them, all of them like an avalanche, the fear of her coming home as if it was happening right now, the pain in my legs that shadows me every day, the anger for being so weak, the frustration of not being able to fix it, the dread because I know what she didn't know:  that it would be years before it would change, and that it would get much worse before it would get even slightly better.  But mainly the sadness, the burning, searing sadness of staring at a phone without anyone to call.

Not one person to call.

The squeak of the door hurls me back into the library - I turn onto my knees and pretend to be absorbed in the search of a hidden title on the bookshelf as if my life depended on it.  It depended on it. Wipe your face, click your neck, bite your lip and smile. 

Smile as you walk through the front door, let it slam behind you, walk to the car, no key needed, and don't think, just run, just go, go, go.  If there is no-body to call, there will be no-body to notice.

But just as I see the front door, so ready to run, I see them spilling out of the hall:  The shy boy with the wise eyes and dreams of becoming a marine biologist.  The friendly smile of our elected kindness monitor as she waves to me, off to her least favourite lesson.  The cheeky glint in the eyes of my two front row trouble makers as they try to hide a packet of gum from my view. The secret hand signal I share with a student who is too anxious to use words for sharing when he's not OK.

I smile up at a curly haired Teenager who suddenly appears in front of me, surprised at how much he seems to have grown over night, too late to realise that my eyes are still brimming with tears.  "Why you cry, Miss?  I make you sad?"  "No, you make me very proud, I was just thinking of your test and how well you did.  But if you are ever sad, and if you think there is not one person you could tell, remember you could tell me."

He raises one eyebrow, and smirks.  "Yeah, I know.  Then you tell me not be sad and read Romeo with Juliet."

"Go on then, smart-arse - get your book out then, if you already know."  I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket, it will be my husband, just saying hi, saying that he's there.

I couldn't run then because of bars and keys and ties.  Now, I don't need to run (probably couldn't if I tried)- I may be walking this hell again, but this time, I know that there's a happy ending.