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Emily
Present
The tomato and herb aroma fills the tiny kitchen. I smile, inhaling the delicious smells. Trent is going to be pleased. Spaghetti bolognaise is his favourite; he’s always happy when I cook this. I need to take one more walk through the apartment to make sure everything is orderly before he gets home.
He likes things a certain way. It’s my job to make sure our home is up to scratch. I walk through the bedroom: the bed is made, the dark duvet wrinkle free, and the pillows are arranged with precision.
Next is the bathroom. I straighten the towels, taking extra care to make sure they are folded over the rail properly and are evenly spaced. Hearing the keys in the front door, I hurry back to the kitchen.
As soon as I get there, my stomach drops. The smell of burnt sauce assaults my nostrils. No, no, no! This cannot be happening. Rushing over to the stove top, I scrape at the pan, trying to salvage what I already know I can’t. I don’t have time to try to cover up my error. Trent’s footsteps are heavy as he makes his way down the hall.
I reach over to the knife block and pick up a small filleting blade, holding it tightly in my hand. My heart beats rapidly as I await what’s coming. There’s a little glimmer of hope that things will be different this time. Hope’s a fucking bitch. The words I was told seven years ago repeat in my mind every time I start to hope for something good.
“Trent, I’m sorry. I-I… just stepped away for a moment. I can fix this,” I plead.
“You just stepped away for a moment. You stupid fucking bitch! How dumb are you? How many times have I told you not to leave things cooking on the stove top!” Trent yells as he makes his way into the kitchen.
“Are you trying to burn the place down? The home I work so fucking hard for! The home I provide you!” The frying pan goes flying across the room, hitting the wall before landing on the beige carpet. I have no idea how I’m going to get the sauce stains out of the carpet.
Instinctively, I take a step, backing up to the corner of the kitchen. I realise my mistake when it’s too late. I’m trapped. I can’t escape from here.
“You’re so ungrateful. Is it too much to ask that dinner be properly cooked and not fucking charcoal when I get home? Huh, Emily. Why is the simplest of fucking tasks too damn hard for you?” Trent ends his sentence with a backhand across my face.
I don’t dare move or make a noise. I know if I do, it will be worse. Sometimes he stops at one. Other times he doesn’t. How did my life turn out like this? My dad would be rolling over in his damn grave if he knew what I was putting up with. What other options do I have though?
Trent smiles as he opens the second drawer and pulls out a wooden spoon. So, this is going to be one of the other times then. My hand grips the little knife tighter. I’m not even sure why I grabbed it. I learnt early on that it was pointless trying to stand up to Trent. He will always beat me. I’ve tried leaving; he’s always able to find me.
I brace for the impact as I see the wooden spoon flying through the air at my face. Motherfucker, that hurts. I can’t help but crunch into myself. The cry escapes my mouth as the left side of my face radiates with pain.
Trent drops the spoon, picks me up by my hair and begins to drag me out of the kitchen. I don’t know what comes over me, but I start to resist. I try to escape his hold. This only makes him angrier though.
He brings his knee up into my stomach, literally knocking the wind right out of me. I fall to the ground. “Please, stop. Trent, stop,” I beg.
“If I stop now, you’re never going to fucking learn your place, you stupid dumb bitch.” Slap, again his hand strikes my already burning cheek.
“If you can’t please me with dinner, you can please me with the only thing you're good at.” Trent starts to undo his belt. He’s going to rape me, again. At least it won’t hurt as bad as being beat.
He lifts my dress up. I’m not allowed to wear panties. I don’t even own any. Trent pushes his cock deep inside me. I scream as he enters me dry. I feel like my insides are being ripped open.
Something digs into my hand. I remember I’m still clutching the little knife I picked up earlier. Trent hasn’t noticed it. I look up at him; his eyes are closed as he pumps in and out of me. Without a second thought, I bring the blade up and jam it into the side of his neck. Pulling it out again, I repeat the action before he has a chance to stop me.
Trent’s eyes go wide as blood spurts out of his neck. I watch as the colour drains from his face. It feels like time stops. Maybe I did it wrong. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t said anything. Then his body collapses on top of mine. This is probably the moment he ends me. He’s not going to take kindly to me slicing him with a knife.
After lying with his dead weight on me for a few minutes, I take the chance and try to shove him off. I roll him onto his back before getting up on my knees. His eyes are open, his skin a pale grey colour. I’m going to be sick.
Running into the bathroom, I empty the contents of my stomach. Shit, fuck! What the fuck have I done? It’s okay… it’s going to be okay. He’s going to wake up. I half expect him to be sitting upright when I walk back into the kitchen. He’s not. He hasn’t moved. There’s a pool of blood around his head.
I have to get out of here. I have to leave. I wash the blood from my hands and throw on a black hoodie, a pair of jeans and my Converse. I pack the very little that’s actually mine into a backpack. Heading into the bathroom, I lift the lid to the toilet cistern and retrieve the plastic bag that holds the phone and letter Josh left me to wake up to seven years ago. I’ve had it hiding in there all this time, only pulling the contents out to charge the battery once every couple of days, and to check if it’s still connected.
So many times, I’ve been tempted to call the one number that is saved into the phone. I know it belongs to Josh; that is, if he hasn’t changed his number since then. Seven years is a bloody long time. I don’t even know why I’ve held onto the items for this long. I just can’t seem to throw them out.
What I do know is that I need to get out of here, out of Adelaide, fast. I take the small amount of cash Trent had stashed in his bedside table. He always left it there to test me. I’d watch him count it every night. I wasn’t stupid enough to ever take any of it.
I don’t look at the kitchen on my way out of the apartment that has been my home, prison and hell for the last three years. Gently closing the door behind me, I pull my cap down low, my long hair hanging like a curtain on the left side of my face. I don’t need to check a mirror to know what people will see when they look at me.
* * *
It’s takenme five days. I have ten dollars left to my name. But I’m here. I’m still unsure why I’m here, of all places. Why I would seek refuge in this dirty old cabin. The dirty old cabin that holds both my favourite and worst memories.
