Page 90 of Kill Me

“I don’t need a relationship status to know you care for me. Which is something that surprises me. But what I do need is to give you the respect to tell you this face to face and not while I’m receiving a ketamine infusion.”

“Okay. I’ll stop it. No problem.” He does as I ask, leaning down to kiss me on my forehead, which seems to have become his trademark. “What was that for?” I ask.

“Just reminding you I’m still here. Take a break until you’re ready. I’ll go and make us some lunch and get us some drinks.”

I smile to myself as he exits the room, and I adjust my position so I’m grounded by the weight of Ted on my lap.

About an hour later, after some food and a drink, and a chapter break from my book—I’m really missing my Kindle at the moment—it’s time.

“I’m ready,” I say.

He puts his own book down and nods for me to continue.

“I have been separated since the ripe old age of 25, and my divorce came through earlier this year. The relief when I opened that document after all of the back-and-forth gaslighting, the guilt trips, and me questioning my sanity, or what little there is of it because he was determined to alter my recollection of events, was life-altering.

As time has passed, I’ve been remembering things about him and my mother. Times they would spend together. Time they would spend on the phone. Low-key flirting, if I’m honest. Even when I was married, I had to stay living in the family home. She wanted me gone, sure, but she wanted him to stay. Even Eric began to feel threatened.

But now, I’m sure he and my mother were spiking my medication. It’s the only thing I can think of that would explain the random, sudden losses of memory and time. They got worse after we got married, and most times I would wake up sore between the legs with bite marks or bruises across my body, unaware of anything that could have caused said injuries.” His jaw tenses as he tries to refrain from reacting to what I’m saying.

“But,” I continue, “with my history, no one would believe me anyway. What was I supposed to do? Go to the police station and tell them my husband was drugging me; having sex with me without consent? My mum has spent years telling me it was my duty to provide my body to my husband. That it didn’t matter if I wanted it or not; it was his right, and to open my legs when told. And it’s only recently I learnt that that was an actual law until 1991. That’s right. Up until then, should your husband choose to have sex with you at a time where you didn’t want it, it was legal.” I fiddle with the blanket and take a drink from my glass.

“‘You’re a slut, Quinny,’ the voices would say. And when your own mother is echoing what they’re saying, you believe it.” Bones moves closer to me. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t want to interrupt my flow. But he sits on the floor in front of me so I can gain comfort from his presence and touch him if I need to.

“It isn’t like I would categorise myself as mentally unstable—I mean, who would? But I’ve spent my whole life trying to off myself, so some would say I fit the definition perfectly. Unfortunately, I haven’t done myself any favours, because now, for the rest of the time I’m alive, anything that happens to me will be reduced to my mental state and become either my fault or something I’ve imagined.”

He looks at me and frowns. “Not if I can help it, it won’t. When you’re ready, we will get your medical records adjusted to the correct information. Your mental health should have no bearing on whether your husband raped you or not.”

“Ex-husband,” I remind him.

“Would you want to report him now?” I shake my head.

“No. I’ve done so much work to repair the damage done to me by others, that to open myself up to the criticism of people and risk being sent back to the dark places I’ve come from, just isn’t worth the pathetic percentage of a conviction.” I ponder my thoughts for a moment, and we sit in silence.

“There is an exception to my decision, though,” I say.

“Which is?” He leans his head back against my chair, still careful not to touch me.

“If I ever heard of him acting inappropriately to girls or women again, I would make it my mission to ensure he could never do it again.”

“You mean you’d TP him?”

“TP? What does toilet papering have to do with punishing a rapist?” I ask.

He bursts into laughter. “Oh, you sweet, innocent soul. I meant The Taxipenist!” I join him in his laughter, my hands over my face.

“For fuck’s sake. Now I think about it, it’s so fucking obvious. But yes, that’s exactly what I mean. The voices always said, ‘We’ll always be in your head, Quinn. You can’t get away from us now. Do us all a favour and kill yourself, bitch.’ But they’re not there anymore. Now that stuff is out of my system, there’s been nothing but silence. Except for my inner monologue, who can be an utter asshole, but I’m working on that.”

“I’m so proud of you. Is there anything else you’ve remembered? Other than waking up with injuries?” I reach out to play with his hair, knowing I need to keep myself in the present as I relay this part of the memory. “There was one night that I now distinctly remember. I’d felt tired in the evening, but not normally tired, like the kind that you feel after you’ve taken sleeping tablets.” I take a deep breath, like Lulu taught me to stave off the panic of feeling like I’m back in that moment. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four.

“The only thing I really remember is waking up, and he’s on top of me, fully seated inside of me. Sweat is dripping from his forehead, and he’s going for gold. When he realises I’m awake, he freezes. I push him off me and ask him what he’s doing, and he tries to convince me I was awake. That I was enjoying it. And then when he realises that isn’t working, he tries to convince me I wanted to try somnophilia. Which, now, with you, I would consider because I know what it is, but back then, I didn’t, so I wouldn’t…”

“You don’t need to convince me, Magpie. I believe you.”

I blink, and tears wet my cheeks. I didn’t even realise I was crying. “I don’t know why I’m emotional. I’m not sad. It happened years ago.”

“You’re emotional because you were raped, Magpie. Not by a stranger, but by your husband. A man you’re supposed to trust with your entire being. And that man betrayed that trust.”

I suppose he’s right. “Anyway, that was the end of our marriage. I told him if he didn’t leave, I would report him to the police and tell everyone what he had done. Since the idiot later admitted it in messages, I had more than enough proof. It took five years to get him to sign the papers, and the only reason he did was because he thought I was going to give him another chance. Throughout the process, though, I was sent screenshots of messages from women he had cheated on me with, where he admitted the only reason he married me is because he thought I was going to get a payday, and marrying me ensured he would get half. Explains why it happened so quickly and why there wasn’t a proper wedding. I didn’t even get to wear a wedding dress.”