She’s over in the corner, where I knew she would be. My, her, our favourite seat, which is near the door so she can drink her lager and black and keep watch for him at the same time. I can smell, from here (maybe it’s my imagination), the White Musk on her neck and the mild BO from her armpits. I know they’re damp. I know her heart is racing. I know she really wants to see him. And I’m here to stop her.
It's weird seeing your younger self. I don’t think I could really describe it to anyone. The young girl who doesn’t have all my experiences and memories yet is fresher of face and smaller of frame, and looks so familiar and at the same time a total stranger. How I am now is a total distortion of this young person nervously and excitedly checking the door. It’s like someone took her, twisted her, kicked her around a bit, and turned her over time into me.
That person was him. The note I’ve written tells as much of the story as I had the stomach to tell. It tells her about my life from the moment he walked in that pub door, through the sex later that night that was normal then, through the many other times the sex was not, through the beatings he swore wouldn’t happen again, and again, and again…
And it tells of what happened last week. When the beatings went too far.
I don’t want her to die at his hands. I didn’t want to die at his hands, but I didn’t have the benefit of foresight. Maybe this note can stop it, change it. Give her the strength I never found.
I just need to convince her to read it.
This is wonderfully written. Thank you.
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