Tag / Domestic Abuse

by Colette

The Rag Doll

Written by Theadora

I’m a rag doll, you’re a knife,
Your blade slicing through my life.
You took my innocence away,
And burned it in the light of day.

You place your needles on my face,
And my coffin you line with lace.
So many nights I faced the pain,
Your lace brushing against my veins.

You raped my body as well as my soul,
And you broke a life once whole.
You beat me to a bloodied floor,
Then satisfied, you locked the door.

As I lay there broken and cold,
I watched this disaster unfold.
So place the blade against my skin,
And let this butchery begin.

One of our oldest members on the forum, Theadora’s work always hit the mark. Written as part of a difficult time, she penned this many years ago and published it to our forum. A haunting poem, The Rag Doll brings darkness to the surface in such a cut-throat fashion. It’s bleak, short and dressed down. And to this day, we still love reading it. If you enjoyed Theadora’s poetry, please consider leaving a comment or a like on the post. 

Featured Image CC // Steven Depolo

 

 

by Colette

Lift Girl – Part 2

Written by Fantasy Girl

She must have left work slightly earlier than usual as I didn’t see her in the lift. But our cars were the only two left in the car park as I stepped from the double glass doors of reception – her red MR2 parked next to my silver Nissan just like every day. She was struggling to start the car as I approached, so I stuck my head through the open passenger window.

“Need a hand?” I asked with a slight smile on my face.

“My stupid bloody car won’t start!” she growled back through gritted teeth as she tried again.

“Which way are you heading? I could give you a lift home, get a mechanic to look over it tomorrow morning?”

“I’m heading back to Colchester, if you know the area, just off Tufnell way?” she seemed hopeful.

I lived about a ten minute walk away from the street she mentioned. “Jump in,” I said. “Let’s get you home.”

The journey home was quiet, pleasurable rather than awkward. We both enjoyed the peaceful silence after a stressful day at work.

“Which road is it?” I asked as we turned on to Tufnell way.

“This one just here,” she pointed to the road sign that said ‘Axel Way’. “But I’ll get out here. Thanks for the lift, I really appreciate it!” And before I could protest, she was out of the car and jogging down the road.

I had to go down the road to turn around anyway, so I drove down, and sped back up the street to the house she was approaching.

“Who the hell is he?” shouted the man who was waiting at the door for her – a partner, I presume. She didn’t answer. Was he on about me? “Who is he? You stupid slut!” He back-handed her across the face, and dragged her into the house by a handful of her hair. He slammed the door behind him, but it bounced back open.

I scrambled out of the car, not knowing quite what I was planning on doing, but knowing I should be doing something. I heard screaming as I approached the door, she was begging him to stop. He didn’t. I crouched down by the door for what seemed like a lifetime, listening to his rhythmic grunts, and her constant pleas for him to stop.

I was in hysterics by the time it finally ended. I had let him do that to her, and I could do nothing about it… I let him rape her, this girl that I barely knew, and it was because of… it was because of me!

I heard her sobs as he moved around the room. Then a gunshot, footsteps. The door swung open and he spat in my direction.

“Enjoy the show did you? She’s a screamer!”, he said, with a sadistic smile on his face. “Well,” he continued after a minute of silence, “you’re welcome to the slut now. A right lot of good she’s going to do you though.” And he walked off, without looking back.

I couldn’t bring myself to move until he was out of sight – I was frozen to the spot like a statue, but then I rushed in, and followed where I thought the commotion had come from. All I could see was blood, a lot of it, akin to a horror film I’d watched the other week.

Lamps, paper, and other household items were scattered all over the floor. There was smashed glass on the kitchen floor tiles and the curtains had been pulled down. And her naked body laid there, in a pool of blood on her cream carpet. The body of the girl I had seen every morning for the last three years, so helpless, so vulnerable. Until today, we had never truly spoken, just a polite ‘hello’ in the lift or a meek wave, on my part.

It was a gunshot to the heart that killed her. Her body was covered in bruises, some old, greening as they faded; some new, purples and blues blossoming like flowers on her ivory skin.

She didn’t even know my name, I thought as I fell to my knees and cradled her head in my lap. I’m the only person here, and it’s because of me that this happened. I should have invited her for coffee, I should have taken her to my place to look over finance plans for the company. She wouldn’t be here – she wouldn’t be like this if I had… – this would never have happened, and it’s all my fault.

“I’m sorry!” I cried, stroking her dark hair away from her beautiful face. “Shiv, I’m so sorry!” And then was when I felt a very faint pulse through her neck.

“Dan,” she whispered as her eyes fluttered open. “Thank you.” And she went limp – her breathing stopped.

I checked for her neck pulse again and confirmed what I already knew.

She was dead.

Fantasy Girl’s second and final part concludes Siobhan and Dan’s tragic story. It’s heartbreaking, and we can’t help but feel a little stab of pain when she mentions his name at the end. Oh dear, better pass us some tissues! If you enjoyed the finale of Lift Girl, make sure you check out the first part which we published last month for the complete package. 

Featured Image CC // Peter Almay

by Colette

Lift Girl – Part 1

Written by Fantasy Girl

My white shirt was stained crimson as I held her dying body in my arms. I didn’t know her – not directly anyway. She worked in the same office block as me. We would pull up in our cars at 8.45 every morning. We would park our cars next to each other every morning. We would walk in and get the lift together every morning; I was on the third floor, she was on the fifth. We would see each other in the lift down as we left at 17.05 every evening, and so on.

Her name was Shiv, short for Siobhan, or whatever variation of the spelling she used. I didn’t know this because I’d spoken to her, I’d never spoken to her apart from a polite ‘hello’ on a morning other than today, I knew it because I saw it on the front of one of her birthday cards one Monday morning a few months after I started working there. Did she know my name? I guess not. How would she? It’d never come up in our ‘hello’s’ on a morning.

She doesn’t even know my name, and I sat there, cradling her head in my lap as she lay dying on the floor before me.

The day stated as any other did: my alarm went off at six am (I snoozed until half past) and dragged my arse out of bed. I brushed my teeth and stumbled downstairs to the back door to have a cigarette. I ironed my shirt and trousers, got changed, wolfed a bowl of Rice Crispies down, and strode out of the door at 8.15.

Chris Moyles was doing his last breakfast show on Radio 1 as I climbed into the car, and ‘Star-boy’ was playing – the remake of the McFly song ‘Star-girl’ that the band did to say bye to Chris. And by the end of it, both Chris and the boys from McFly were in tears. It was a painful half hour drive; just listening to the goodbyes, the celebrities’ goodbyes, as well as the fans. I was sick of the whole charade by the time I pulled up to work. Yeah, I get it, he was a good DJ, but he didn’t deserve that much of a send-off.

I wondered where Shiv was as I walked into the office reception, but heard her shout, “Hold the lift!” as I stepped inside. As she slid in beside me, I noticed her dark hair, usually pulled back into a neat bun, was falling elegantly about her shoulders. And I soon saw why; as she pulled the sleeve of her shirt up to scratch her shoulder, I saw a bruise blossoming on her collar-bone – the purples and the blues of hurt and anguish.

Thinking back on it, I could have stopped this from happening – maybe I should have invited her out for coffee, asked her to come over to my place and look over some of the finance stuff I’ve been working on for the company, or something. It’s my fault it happened. I’d seen the signs. Most of all, I’d seen the bruises and the low self-esteem. Her seemingly irrational fear of most of the men we worked with. I should have stopped it. I could have stopped it. I could have stopped her going home… but hindsight is a wonderful thing. How was I supposed to know how that night was going to end? But somehow, I can still only blame myself.

Written on behalf of the Fiction Frenzy with the theme ‘Just One Day’, Fantasy Girl’s short story fits perfectly into the theme of beginnings. Starting at the end and gradually hooking us with a dark tale, reeling in all the raw emotion from a sudden death. It’s gut-wrenching but, still, a wonderfully told story – and this is just the first part! If you enjoyed Fantasy Girl’s short fiction, why not consider reading some of her other fine pieces including, ‘Commune‘ and ‘I’m a Slug, Get Over It‘. 

Featured Image CC / Chris Chabot

by Colette

The Root of Insanity

Written by Ashcloud

beach campsite

Logs burning, searching for a soul. Image // stockarch

Eyes that can shatter with a fleeting glance,
The pallor of wispy ashes, their steel-like trance.
The flame that never flickers, engulfs the fire of a soul,
Burning, burning, fading fast. Never to grow old.
A drop of raw emotion, a single splash of blue.
It’s clear you always see me but I never can see you.

Rough hands that craft, today they come
Squeeze solace from the soul.
Impatient tapping, deadbeat drum
Forever haunts the foal.
A pinch of raw emotion, one hand held in two,
It’s clear you always see me but I never can see you.

A gruesome grin or wicked word, countless deepening gashes.
Swaying, swaying, back and forth, in turmoil of endless lashes.
Rare the calm before the storm,
When tender breeze my heart doth warm.
A breath of raw emotion, a whispered promise few,
It’s clear you always see me but I never can see you.

Your eyes could burn,
Your hands could hit,
You never cared one single bit.
Mind games and violence made me insane,
Daddy, you’re the only one to blame.

Ashcloud’s poem cuts us to the core. It’s deep and it’s powerful, but most of all it feels raw. Though it’s written in verse and has a tight structure, it somehow feels loose with emotion as the poet’s voice struggles to keep control. We were swept away by reading this, so we commend Ashcloud’s written work. If you liked her poem, feel free to leave a like, comment or even check out her other work such as, ‘Knight‘ and ‘One Day at a Time‘. 

by Colette

Commune

Written by Fantasy Girl

family_domestic_abuse

Don’t suffer in silence. For more information on Domestic Abuse please see http://www.nationaldomesticviolencehelpline.org.uk/
Image Courtesy of elaph.com

“I can’t deal with this anymore. You’ve sat by and watched this happen for years and you’ve never done a thing about it! How can you live with yourself?” 
“I tell him not to, I swear! I can’t stop him though!”
“It’s not good enough anymore! I hate it here! I hate you for letting him do it! I hate him for everything he’s done! I hate my life!”

She woke with tears in her eyes, quickly wiping them away. “Ouch,” she mumbled, feeling the tightness in her joints as she walked to the mirror to inspect herself. The bruises that mottled her skin had almost disappeared, but the ache was still there.

Just a few pale yellow patches left.

She shook her head in disgust. She pulled on some leggings, a vest and a light cardigan to cover them up, ran a comb through her hair and quietly left her room.

She could hear her mother and father talking in the kitchen as she stood at the top of the staircase. Continue reading →