Content Warning: Sensitive topics and trauma

She tried to blink away the murk of tears and to spit the coppery tang of blood out of her mouth. The blood had trickled freely from her nose and the two liquids coagulated while she slept, clinging to her face like a rosey burial gown. Breathe, Maria, she reassured herself, peeling away hair sticking to her temple. You’re fine, c’mon. She always started her post-dream mantra with that lie.

Her instincts were still outpacing her reason; her muscles were taut and agitated, perspiration sheened her skin and her breathing came in jittering, tremulous gasps. She groped the bedside table for something to wipe the scarlet mask off her sunken face, her rattling fingers nearly tipped week-old ash and cigarette ends across the floor. Right then, she thought, defeated, get your breath first. Just breathe for a minute. She willed her body, trying to muster some control of herself. Sit up, at least then before you have a smoke. She obeyed. That’s it. You’re fine.

She pulled her thin knees up to her chest, snivelling into them. Through the curtainless window, moonlight showed the damp patch in the sheets in uncomfortable clarity. She sighed, long, heavily, and cocooned herself in the duvet nonetheless. It was the vaguest dream she’d had to date, but the fragmentary images had been some of the most vivid. Visceral, even. Tension creeped up her back as the dream-memories crawled into recollection behind her eyes.

Remember what Dr Greer said; they’re dreams, they’re not happening now. You’re fine.

Fingers slinking through her hair, their nails dragging across her scalp. You’re alright. She tried closing her eyes but it just made her recall how they’d felt when they rolled back. It’s fine. You’re fine! The stiffness in her back coiled into her limbs. She had felt a breath whisper in her ear. Had it spoken? No, she couldn’t remember but didn’t think so. It just breathed. Her limbs trembled with the traction. You’re FINE, Maria! Stop it! That breath lingered on her skin; hot and acrid. Then she felt it, the invasive breeze tracing the curve of her ear. The tension in her body snapped, throwing her out of the bed and scrambling across the floor like a cadaver being violently ejected from its coffin.

The room spiralled into a cacophony, time stopped or raced. At some point her body had stopped crawling and convulsing and huddled itself into the gap between the wardrobe and chest of drawers. She felt her foot thump-thump-thump-thump against the matted carpet. The shadows hovering at the peripherals of her vision made her check once, twice and a third time that she was alone in her room. Not that it’s even my room anyway, Maria thought. The furnishings, now coated in ash by the tray she’d sent flying at some point, were flimsy, standard issue softwood from Women’s Aid. The now-piss-sodden mattress from the council’s homeless team, the mould lining the walls a gift from the negligence of the outsourced landlord who owned the sanctuary. Nothing here is mine. Her eyes conducted one last survey of the room before finding the mirror leaning against the opposite wall. Well, at least I’m still me…

The longer her eyes lingered, the more the indifferent glass reflected something she didn’t recognise back at her. Fresh tears sliced through the grime encrusting her cheeks. The thing in the mirror was wretched: a carcass that hadn’t yet accepted it was dead. Its eyes watched her with obvious, mewling fear. I don’t even really belong to me, Maria mused, appalled. Do I? The eyes looking back at her hardened, the decrepit features morphed, bit by bit, into a glower. She felt its rising frustration writhing in her own belly. Dried blood flaked off the twisting counters of its face, dusting her knees, as the glower became a primitive snarl.

“Not really, no,” her voice growled from the mirror. One of her arms lifted its top, revealing the nebulous bruising knotting its scrawny torso. Its rage thrashed against those ribs. “You stopped being your own when you let him do this.” Her arm snapped out, hurling the upturned ashtray through the mirror, smashing it into jagged shards.

The moon’s baleful glare illuminated the corpse of her disconnected reflection in a cold half-light. Maria froze as the latticework of fresh scars glinted off of one of its reflective bones. “You couldn’t stop him doing what he did”, she heard the corpse’s voice say. She stooped readily, surrendering herself to her own ghost. “You can’t control my own head.” The shard’s jagged edge bit into her sweaty palm.

But I control what happens to my body now.

* * *

Maria pressed the ‘start’ button on the dented washing machine, desperately hoping that its hottest setting would actually wash the bed sheet. If it does work, she thought, and shrinks it, I’m gonna be pissed. The machine droned into life and she forced out an upbeat sigh, her bracelets melodically jangling as she patted her hands against her hips. Right, what else have I got left to do? She’d showered and veritably attacked her face with micellar water and a cloth (she ticked off an invisible tick-box on the ceiling with a flourish). She’d near enough clogged the hoover with the ash that had seemed to plaster everything (she scored another box off with a jangle). She’d tried not to let shame eat her alive as she stripped and washed the bedding (another, reluctant, jangle). Oh… Just that. She looked over to shattered remains of the mirror, swept into the furthest corner of the bedsit. Her bracelets slipped down to her wrists with a dull clink, her fingers lingered delicately on her right thigh.

Fragments of glass gleamed in the midday sun like bleached bones. Maria took a deep breath and winced. Despite the profuse spraying of purple lavender to cover the scent of weed, the faint pungency of blood slithered into her nose. She took a step towards the shards, tentatively, cautiously approaching, as if they were a body she wasn’t quite sure was fully dead. Breathe, she reassured herself, you’re fine. Her heart thumped inside her chest to the tempo of the washing machine rattling against the wall. She felt herself bend down, her arm extending, her fingers tenderly reaching. A slam on the door jolted her back into the room and she snapped upright. Shaking away the reverie, she yanked her phone out of her pocket. Ah, shit! It was 12:01. They’re here.

She looked at the door and back to the mirror, frantically trying to corral her wayward thoughts. No, she chastised herself, no more of that, Maria. A second knock put her in motion.
“Coming, just a sec!” she called, tossing whatever clothes were at hand over the broken glass and hastily crossing to the door.

“I hope they don’t smell the blood,” her voice said from the corner of the bedsit, muffled by layers of fabric. Confusion forced her feet to a stop and turned her head back to the pile. Wait. What the fu- the thought dissolved at the sound of another, slightly impatient knock. Before she had opened the door fully she was assaulted with the patronising, drawling ‘Hi’ and accompanying, obligatory smiles from the two mental health crisis team workers.

She ushered them over to the sticky table, tactfully sitting closer to the woman than the man, and forced a neutral smile. They proceeded through the regular motions; ‘Have you been trying the breathing exercises, Maria? It’s really important that you do, Maria. Have you been taking your medication, Maria? How’s your sleep been, Maria? Bla-bla-fucking-bla, Maria’. She sat lifelessly, giving one-word answers through the whole tedious spiel of mandatory questions. Jesus wept, how underqualified are these people? she thought, pent-up anger was threatening to come in exasperated tears. At least they haven’t asked if you’ve tried having a cup of tea like the Samaritans guy.

“At least they haven’t asked when the last time you self-harmed was yet.” The diminutive muscles of her thigh tensed uncomfortably and she drew her cardigan around her. “You shouldn’t be lying to medical professionals, should you, Maria?” The invasive voice dripped with caustic irony. “You shouldn’t be cutting yourself like that, should you, Maria?”

“Has,” she tried to swallow but her mouth was arid, “has Dr Greer been in touch about my next session?” The workers’ apathy refused to detect the note of desperation in her question.

“She has, actually,” chirped the woman, “she just phoned this morning about it. I took a note, give me a sec.” She consulted the pages of her cheap flippad. Maria leaned forward, trying vainly to temper the current of excited relief that was swelling in her. “Ah, here we are,” the woman said enthusiastically. “She’s booked your next appointment for the 19th of June.”

“Wait,” the dam burst and she was swept up in the relief that flooded out, “today’s the 13th. So that’s just under a week, right?” The woman’s eyes rolled nervously to her colleague. From beneath a shock of sweptback hazel hair he looked at her with soft, disparaging eyes.

“I’m afraid not, Maria. Today is the 13th of May.”

The tide of elation she’d been surfing wavered above waters that were churning with despair. Have I really drank and smoked the days away that much? she thought with genuine shock. She rapidly calculated the days and the answer plunged her into the maelstrom. Thirty seven days.

“Oh.” She sputtered up the word like water from her lungs. “Okay. No problem.” The condescending smile didn’t leave the man’s face. The woman at least had the decency to notice that Maria was going under. But the momentum of her standardised statements sailed right past Maria, each one more carefully closed-ended than the last to make sure Maria wasn’t extended a verbal lifeboat.

She disregarded both of them prattling off the usual banalities and when they left she dimly registered her hands locking the door behind them. It’s okay, she mentally consoled herself.

Thirty seven days. You can manage that. It’s nearly been that long since you got away from Adam.

“And that feels like a lifetime ago.” The statement thrust her head back into the choking brine. But for a second, she surfaced. Exactly! She’d forgotten what optimism, untainted by the manic machinations of her mind, felt like. Tempus fugit, like Dr Greer said. Time flies. It’ll go by quick!

She took a deep, invigorating breath. You’ll be absolutely fine, Maria. The mirror brooded in its corner, contemplating. “And thirty six nights.” She shuddered, repressing a wracking sob as the truth of that dawned on her. “Good luck. We’ll need it.” The tears dragged eyeliner down her face. She crossed the room and from the makeshift sarcophagus she exhumed a vertebrae-long shard of serrated glass.

* * *

The blunt echo of footsteps outside her room announced someone’s presence. She sat up in her bed, as alert as a deer hearing a wolf stand on a twig. She crouched amidst the duvet for an agonisingly long minute, straining her ears against the quiet. Another step outside thundered against the wall of silence.

“The glass,” her thoughts scrambled into motion, “grab the glass!” She slipped, shaking from the sheet, slinking past where she knew the floorboards would creak and grabbed the longest piece she could find in the darkness. Okay. Glass. Okay.

“Calm down. We’re okay, Maria”, she tried to assert some authority over herself. “Eyes on the door. Glass in front.” Her chest heaved as she watched the sliver of light at the bottom of the door. In the black silence of the room that thin slit was radiant to her eyes. The twisting of the handle sounded with the volume of a gunshot. She squeezed the glass, rivulets of her own blood spilling down her fingers.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

“You’re fine, it’s okay.”

What if it’s him?

“It’s not.”

What if it is?

“It’s not him, Maria!” she snapped at herself. “Just stay quiet. Just listen.” She did as she commanded. Her teeth punctured her lip in to stop her teeth chattering. She cycled through every breathing technique doctors had taught her to stop hyperventilating. She waited. The seconds stretched out into a yawning eternity.

“Okay,” her thoughts quavered but stayed focused.“Let’s check the lock now. Slowly. Let’s go.” She skulked towards the door one footstep at a time with the shard ready to plunge.

“Good. That’s it. You’re fine.” She touched the handle. Her bloody, sweaty palm slipped. The handle wrenched downwards and the lock groaned as it was released. The burning amber light from the corridor forced its way around the corners of her threshold. She clenched the glass. She screamed her dread into the corridor, slicing the glass out at neck height.

It never connected. The corridor was empty. She twisted her neck left and right, up and down. All that was there was the stale smell of damp and cigarette smoke. The adrenaline propelling her was dropping despite the pulse screaming in her temple. Her thoughts were winding down from an inferno to a flicker as she realised she wasn’t in danger. Her body felt weightless and she could feel her mind slipping beyond her control. She still brandished the glass in front of her, only lowering it when she retreated uncertainly behind the door.

There wasn’t a coherent thought in her head, rational or otherwise. Her fingers locked the door and her legs hauled her across the room, the greasy carpet chafing her bare feet. Her oily fingers dropped the glass atop the open grave with the other shards, anointing them in a splash of her blood. Clean, was all she could formulate when she looked at her hands. Then bandage. Her body tended to itself, treating her wounds and staving off catatonia, and checked the door again, just to be sure.

Joint. Calm down. She slumped into one of the rickety chairs at the table, letting full circulation return to her fingers. She picked up the grinder from the table and laboriously twisted it, monotonously packing as much cannabis as physically possible into the splayed out rolling paper. She recuperated enough to think in sentences but each one was like a lash across her brain. I need to not be able to think until the morning.

“If the choice is between hitting the off-button,” her voice was gentle inside her head, “or slitting your wrists. Then take the lesser evil, right?” She put the joint to her lips and raised the lighter. She took a long drag, her lungs accustomed to filling with smoke after frequently relying on pushing the off-button. “There. You’re okay, Maria. You’re okay.” She closed her eyes and deliberately exhaled a cloud that lingered on the air in miasmic currents.

She breathed in again, smelling something different. The pungent scent was undeniable. She had spent four and a half years tormented by that smell. The cloying aftershave crawled down her throat. It stung her eyes as she madly scanned the room. She turned and watched, horrified, as the blood stained door handle turned downwards.

His silhouetted bulk smothered the doorway. It swayed as it turned and locked the door behind itself. The moon, emerging from the clouds, illuminated the slack-jawed inebriation on his lithe face. From beneath blonde hair made greasy with sweat, the light shone on eyes glazed and sharpened by cocaine and alcohol. When those eyes found her, the mouth curled up into a grin. Mocking. Predatory.

“There she is.”

She was rooted to the chair. The joint slipped from her fingers to the carpet. His left eye twitched as he followed it.

“What the fuck have I told you about smoking that shit in my house?” The words were a guttural, calculated drawl. Her breath was crushed inside her lungs.

“Maria!” She heard her voice call as if beneath water.

“Well?” He paced forwards. No, she thought. Her panic was birthing terror and every inch of her body shook. Oh no. Please. Not again.

“Maria!”

“I – I’m sorry,” she heard something whimpering in her voice.

“Sorry?” His tone was flat. A fat fist reached up, her eye-lids spasmed, she tensed. The fist brushed a stray lock away from her face. “It’s just as well you’re pretty, isn’t it?” She choked down rising bile. He picked up the smouldering joint and sat down next to her, taking a drag.

“Maria! Maria, listen to me!” His head lumbered towards her exposed neck.

“What’re you shaking for?”

“N-nothing. Just cold.”

“It’s summer. Why the fuck are you shaking?”

“I’m just cold, Adam. I’ve not been well.”

He snorted and wisps of smoke and rancid breath licked at her.

“Maria!” Her voice roared inside her head “Get the glass!” His dry, cracked lips touched the vulnerable skin of her jugular. She threw herself away from them, darting to the corner before he could grab her and snatched up the bloody glass. He got up, slowly stalking towards her.

“What’d you think you’re doing, Maria?”

“Get the FUCK away from me, Adam!” she screamed, eyes wide with fury and fear. “I swear, I will slit your fucking throat!”

His advance hesitated. She wouldn’t have known the crystalline dagger opened her wounds again if she didn’t feel the blood soaking through her bandages.

“Maria”, his voice was too calm, “put that back. And sit down.” She readied her grip. He came closer. “Maria.” The word promised violence. He took another step. He was three feet away. He lunged forward.

“DO IT!” She lashed out, the glass bit deep into his arm. He stumbled back, eyes bulging. His other hand moved quicker than she could, smacking the glass out of hers.
“You fucking bitch,” his meaty fist rose like an anvil. “YOU FUCKING BITCH!” Before it fell, Maria saw something in his eyes, something different. She closed her eyes.

They snapped open, dazed by the early morning light. She raised her hands in front of her: the palms were slick with sweat rather than blood. Breathe, Maria. You’re fine. She stared at them, disorientated and overwhelmed, and bawled spasmodically into the sheetless duvet. When she pulled herself upright the sun had moved several inches to reach through the curtainless window and gently cradle her.

Thirty-six more nights, she lamented, thirty-six more nights dealing with this fucking hell. As she reached for her rolling papers on the bedside table, an image cut through her fugue. Her body went rigid, dropping the papers. What was that? It was too wavering to be real, but, she knew, it was too distinct to be a dream. Her temple throbbed as she forced the image back into focus. His eyes solidified in horrible, ravenous clarity and she flinched. No, not ravenous, she realised. A wave of incredulity made her feel like she was drowning, or like she was drawing in the first breath she had ever taken. That look in them…Th-that, her thoughts stammered, was fear. He had been scared. Scared of… The frown holding back her tears burst like a damn. Remembering how the wolf had known fear when the deer had presented its antlers, elated tears spilled freely on her face. She wiped her eyes as she glanced over at the pile of bloodstained clothes in the corner, resolving to give the glass shards a proper burial after her morning joint.

“Thirty-six more nights, Maria,” she exhaled through the first genuine smile that had tugged at her lips in what had felt like a lifetime. “Just thirty-six more nights.”

Featured Image Credit: Lidia Riehman / Pexels