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When we got back home, in the townhouse where we were now living with Richard, he closed the door behind us with a hard click. Mum’s smile faded like it had been turned off at the plug. Richard wheeled on her.
“Who told you to dress her like a whore?”
Mum couldn’t get a single word out. She stared at him, her green eyes fluttering wildly, her mouth moving wordlessly, her cheeks drawn. Mum used to be beautiful, but these days she was just thin and tired and scared.
“Do you know how much embarrassment you caused me? Parading her around like some younger version of you, begging the whole world to take a good look at her?”
I stood frozen, watching the scene unfold, suffocated by my fear, utterly powerless.
“I-I didn’t mean to—” Mum starts.
But it’s too late.
And there’s no point.
There’s nothing she could have said.
I watched, frozen and helpless, as Richard hit her so hard she dropped to her knees. Most of the time, Richard preferred to hurt Mum away from me and hurt me away from Mum. This time, it was like he didn’t care. Or maybe he had just stopped caring altogether.
And then the strangest thing ever happened.
Richard turned on me, and he gripped the collar of my dress in his hand and ground my face hard against the wall, spittingout a flood of vile words and accusations. My face and arm were throbbing with pain from when he slammed me into the wall. My chest ached where he was clutching my dress. The wall was cold, and my ears were ringing.
And then, just like that, I was watching myself.
Like pulling out of my body and up steps of air. I was suddenly standing high above myself, above my mother cowering on the ground and Richard pinning me to the wall. I stood, and I watched, and I was suddenly very, very calm.
I watched myself, and so many things became clear to me then.
First, that no help was coming. Mum wouldn’t help, Richard wouldn’t go away, the police wouldn’t come, nobody would come. I would receive no help. Not just in this moment but for the rest of my life.
Second, that the Willow on the ground was sad and hurt and vulnerable and, most importantly, weak. She would not survive. She would need to be put away somewhere, somewhere deep and dark and warm and safe, like the wet black chamber of a human heart or the silent limbo of a forgotten memory.
Iwould keep her safe. I would make sure nothing happens to her. I would become a hard shell around her and take every blow thrown at her.
And last, that I would need to go one step further. I wouldn’t just keep the Willow on the floor safe. I would do more than that. I wouldavengeher. I would make sure every last person who hurt her suffer. I swore it to her, right before I buried her away.
That night, much later, long after Richard and Mum went to sleep, I cut myself for the first time. By the time I stopped, the day of my mother’s death, it had become a sort of blood tally, but that wasn’t the original intention. I didn’t do it because I was sad, and I didn’t do it as a punishment. I didn’t deserve to be punished.
I did it becausemypain belonged tome. It was the only pain I would ever allow myself to feel from now on.
33
Die Fighting
Willow
We must have drivenfor hours, somewhere remote enough for Simon to do what he needs to do. I’m carried out of the car and dragged down some stairs, and then I’m thrown onto a cold hard floor. I force myself to breathe and stay calm.
Simon gets a few kicks in before he rips the black sack off my head and shoves me onto my back with his foot. There’s cold concrete against my back, a stark contrast to the red-hot surge of my blood through my veins. The dim light of the basement we’re in barely illuminates Simon, but I can still see his ugly mug twist with satisfaction.
He’s alone. The other guy, Terry—the one who knocked me out—must be outside standing guard. Simon leans over me and pulls at the collar of his shirt to show me the thick red scar beneath, surgical stitches still crisscrossing the wound.
“You remember this,Willy?” Simon says, spittle flying as he speaks. “Remember coming to my house, where my wife and kids live, and threatening me with that little knife of yours? Remember all that?”
“I don’t make a note every time I step on a bug, Simon.”
His fist connects with my jaw—hard. He’s wearing rings; I taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth straight away. But rings to the face is a familiar sensation, even after all these years. So is the familiar copper flavour of my own blood.
