Short Story: This Was Never Supposed To Happen To Me

I just found this while clearing through emails. I wrote this for my short story module at university. It kind of holds up. There are of course things I would change, but I genuinely did not remember that I had written this, forgot the twist coming. I'm genuinely a bit impressed with little Elle??? They did kind of good?? Hell yeah. Shoutout to my module tutor Meredith. 

 This Was Never Supposed To Happen To Me

My mother smothers me when the Doctor says I’ve been discharged. All I can see is her hair and I all I can smell is her perfume. I could recognise it anywhere. Notes of middle-class arrogance and trying too hard. I unpeel myself from her arms and ease her back into the metal chair beside me. A nurse approaches, handing her a wad of paper. My mother complains as she scribbles her new surname on the forms, tutting and swearing under her breath. The bangles that run up her wrist jingle as she writes.

She bundles me up and walks me out to the Range Rover Greg just bought her. She sips from her Costa cup, leaving a trace of sticky pink lipstick on the rim. I stare straight ahead and shrug off the hand that reaches for my shoulder. I blink back the tears that sting the back of my eyes. She taps her manicured hand on her steering wheel, in time to the beat of the songs on the radio. 

We drive through Hatton to get to the new house. The grey tarmac stretches out before us, winding between grey houses that sit underneath grey clouds that chug across the sky. I watch as raindrops race down the window beside me. We squeeze down narrow streets in this impractical machine, moving sluggishly between the cars parked on either side. My friends and I used to race down these streets after school on our scooters, then skateboards, then feet. They began as trips to the shop for sherbets, then cans of coke, and eventually beer. We’d sit on those low walls, chatting about anything, until we were told to move. 

I stare out at small semi-detached houses that each look the same as the one beside it. Bricks zigzag their way from the pavement to the front door, like the scales on some dormant beast. The rooves all match up. I imagine running from one to the next, hopping over the small chimney breasts and landing once again on the same grey-brown tiles. I never paid much attention to the houses when we used to live here.

Grey and blue bins have been dragged to the end of the front gardens. They stand guard in front of the houses, lining up as if in preparation for some kind of waste collection uprising. I see a woman putting a bag in the grey bin. She is wearing a tatty pink dressing gown and slippers, like her, they were probably soft at one point. 

I see my old primary school, with its boxy, red-brick exterior. Pictures are cut out in shapes on the windows. People with yellow hair and orange skin smile eerily outwards, silently screaming. I follow the building with my head as we pass it. I look down and notice my mother has locked the car doors.

We arrive at the new house. It is oak floors and linen air fresheners. Pictures of a happy family line the walls. Plastic smiles and forced hugs. An overly-extravagant wedding. I am half-pushed up the stairs. My bedroom is white, and bare. The yellow I had wanted didn’t match her aesthetic. She puts me in bed, pulling the duvet up around my neck and tucking it under me. Hungarian Goose Down.

‘I’ll bring you some food after I’m back from Book Club.’ She slowly shuts the door behind her, and I am pulled into exhaustion. I let out a long sigh, close my eyes, and burrow down into the duvet.

My hands are tied, my head is heavy. The air is thick with the taste of metal. Blood from my nose runs into my mouth. I’m sat on something cold and hard and whatever I’m sat on is moving. I try to get a sense of my surroundings, but I can’t see anything. All I can hear is the whir of an engine, and I am cold down to my bones. I wriggle where I’m sat, and my limbs scream at me. I feel bruised and broken. Nothing about this feels okay. I vomit onto my own lap. 

Light floods into my eyes, and I am momentarily blinded. The outline of a dark figure moves towards me. Then it’s pitch black again and I try to scream. My bones feel spongey and fragile as I am dragged sideways and pulled to my feet. My knees give way immediately, and they smash onto whatever surface is below me. No one moves me. I grasp at sounds. I think I hear footsteps retreating. 

I stir, sweaty, from restless sleep. Wiping the dribble from my mouth, I sit up. My spine aches and my head is cloudy. My eye is healing though. I get up and open the blind. I use the sterile-white ensuite, taking my time. Staring into my reflection, I follow the purple lumps, delve into the sunken hollows under my eyes, trace the bloody lip, and the hopeless expression. I’ve gotten so used to hiding my feelings from my face. I climb into the shower and stand under the cold spray. When I come out my mother is sat on my bed waiting. She hands me a plate.

‘Are you going to tell me what happened?’ I avoid her eyes and take a bite of the sandwich. Ham and lettuce. 

‘I don’t have anything to say,’ I spit through mouthfuls. She sighs, and I can hear her eyes roll. The door shuts behind her with a thud. It shakes me. My brain rushes back to my room at the hospital. The police woman asked me questions, and I closed my eyes and relived the memories that pushed themselves forward.

‘Pain wakes me up. My head pounds and my bones are shattered into tiny pieces. My left eye feels fat and it hurts when I raise my eyebrows. I blink down at myself, my t-shirt is ripped down the front, exposing my bra. The buttons on my jeans are undone. My eyes are hot, like I’ve already been crying. No tears come now though. I just stare at my feet. The mud on my trainers is dried and flakes off when I rub my feet together.’

‘Where were you?’

‘I think it’s some sort of basement. The only light comes from a naked bulb in the corner of the room. The walls are bare and grey, like an empty swimming pool. My hands are tied, but my legs are free. So, I pace slowly round the room. Time passes strangely. The hours stretch by like a cat on a wall in the sun, but I can’t tell how many have come and gone. I don’t even know if it is night or day. My head is still full of lead, and my joints have been twisted tight with a spanner. There is a thin mattress that I sit on. A bucket in the far corner.’

‘Did you see anyone? Did you see who was keeping you there?’

‘He's come back. He plonks a sandwich down in front of me. Ham and lettuce. I kick the plate away from me. He is dark hair and a wide stance. His face is wrinkled, like it’s endured years of contortion: lines on a map. He sneers, even when I think he isn’t trying to. His brow is furrowed, and his yellow teeth snigger at me when he licks his lips. I hate it; the way he looks at me. His eyes linger on me, glazing over my body, as he walks away. I wish I could pick up the plate. I’d throw it at the back of his head.’

‘Did he do anything to you?’ I nod my head, fighting back tears. 

‘He is fat. His stomach hangs over the belt of his jeans. His breath tastes like coffee and silver fillings. He wheezes in my face and leaves bruises on my legs. He pins me down. And I scream.’ I shake my head furiously, trying to clear it like an etch-a-sketch. ‘Please, I don’t want to think about it.’

‘Let’s take a break. I’ll get you some water.’ 

They ended the questioning when they realised I didn’t know anything. I remember parts, but mostly my brain is fogged. I can try to remember more, but it’s useless. I’d rather try to forget.

*

I spend the next few days in bed, dipping in and out of sleep. When I sleep I see his beady eyes staring deep into mine. I wake in a sweat, with muscles tensed. Tears find their way to my eyes easily and I’ve stopped bothering to wipe them away. 

After days feeling numb and empty, I start to feel hungry. I make my way downstairs to an empty kitchen. On the marble counter is a newspaper. My eyes catch on a photo of my own face. I pick it up with unsteady hands and an uneasy stomach. 

‘Schoolgirl found on Hatton roadside’ jumps down my throat. I don’t want to read on but I can’t stop myself. ‘Hannah Jenkins, 17, was picked up by an ambulance on Monday morning when the sighting of a body was reported on the side of Derby Road. Missing for two weeks, Miss Jenkins, who attends the local sixth form, was recovered and is now on the mend at Burton Hospital. Miss Jenkins’ mother, Mrs Marin, was pressed for a statement but remained silent. Local police query as to why she did not report the girl missing until a week had passed.’

Feeling sick, I screw up the paper and shove it as far into the bin as I can. Suddenly, I’ve lost my appetite. I retreat back to my room, using the walls and banister to keep myself upright. I don’t cry, which surprises me. I don’t do anything. I just sit on my bed and breathe, in, out, slow, calm. My phone buzzes over on my desk and I lean over for it. The names of my friends flash up on the screen, before being replaced by another. 

‘Just seen the newspaper. You ok? Call me.’

‘Woah, just read the paper. Crazy!’

‘Everyone at college is going mental! You ever coming in?’

‘Want me to come round? I’ll bring ice cream?’

I hold down the power button and tuck my phone out of sight underneath my bed. I don’t know how to respond. I don’t want to think about it. If I see any of them, it means I have to admit it. It means it happened. It means this isn’t just some terrifying dream I’m yet to wake up from. I can’t believe the newspaper is allowed to report it. I curl up underneath the duvet. 

I walk around the house, padding softly in my slippers, not changing out of my pyjamas and dressing gown. I still can’t get warm. I slip between rooms like a ghost. I only leave my room when everyone has left. I know I’ll be greeted by the pitiful head tilt from whomever walks through the door. They look down at me, glad they aren’t tangled up in this messy inconvenience. They hug my mother as if the weight of the world is on her shoulders. My mother goes out every day, for lunches, and hair appointments, and spa days. To ‘take her mind off things’. Greg leaves for work early every morning. He dons a grey suit that’s far too expensive, makes himself a coffee in the machine that’s far too loud, and drives off in his Porsche which is far too small for him. I watch him between the slits in the blinds. I hate him for the life he’s bought, and I hate that I live in it too. I stay out of their way, so they don’t have to remember the nuisance that burdens them.

A few days later, once doors stop slamming and heels stop clacking on the tiles, and the house is once again silent, I make my way downstairs. I walk slowly, quietly, as if I don’t want to announce my presence. I don’t want to remind the house I’m here. I am sitting in the living room, nibbling at a buttered bagel, my eyes search the walls and the cabinets. I wander over to the tall oak dresser propped up against the large blank wall. Opening a drawer I find tea-towels and aprons, in the next there are bank statements and letters of no interest to me. In the bottom drawer of the cabinet is a heavy, brown leather photo album. I flip it open on the coffee table. I don’t recognise anyone. School photos, cricket clubs. People down the pub each holding a pint in one hand, the other slapped around the shoulders of another chubby, middle-aged man. Each one of them has a proud grin on his face, and I can tell they are the kind of men who think the pub is theirs for the night. The ones you wish you would just shut up. One of them I realise is Greg. Sitting there all smug, he probably bought everyone a pint just to show off that he could. Next to him is a dark haired man. Cold runs through me, and my stomach lurches as I recognise his face. Thick eyebrows, creased eyes above a smile so vile my skin tries to peel itself off me. I slam the book shut and stand up, pacing the living room. Tears form fast behind my eyes and my breaths come back all at once and I am choking on each one.

The front door slams shut and footsteps approach the living room. I shove the photo album back in its drawer and bound up the stairs. I turn on the shower, sit on the closed toilet, and try to slow my breathing. Fuck. I can’t stop pacing, and my eyes are never quite dry. My head feels heavy and my eyes feel like they’re about to burst. There’s nothing I can do. I have no proof it was him. It can’t be him. 

I had seen him before. My mind races through business dinners, suited men. A Rolls Royce peeling up the driveway. I am thrown backwards. My legs fall through the floor and my arms are ripped out of my shoulders. A meteor hits me on the side of the head. Simon. Greg’s fucking business partner.

Turning off the shower I climb into bed and shut off the lights. I try to clear my mind by filling it with music, and reading. Nothing works. His face flashes up in front of me with every blink, and I can feel the weight of him on top of me. I can hear his gravelly voice and his foul laughter. I sit in front of the toilet for an hour, sure I am going to hurl up the little food I’ve had. This can’t be real. You hear stories. It’s not supposed to happen to you. I feel bad for every article I’ve clicked off thinking it would never be me. Those girls were just unlucky, or they were in some place they weren’t meant to be. This was never supposed to happen to me.

Everywhere I go takes me back to that basement. My skin itches with his touch and I scream, and I cry. I cannot escape him. I wretch into an empty toilet. I claw frantically at his face but it’s just my pillow. I scrape away at my legs with my razor, but it doesn’t remove the feel of him on me. He is more than skin deep. He is inside me. In my head, between my legs, in my blood. He is coursing through my body like poison, splitting off organ by organ, infecting my bones. His sick face swirls between my veins. His revolting cackle rips through my stomach. He is the arm that touches the base of my back. His fingers run through my hair. His breath swirls at my neck with the wind. I can’t get him off me. He is everywhere. I don’t know if I will ever be rid of him. 

Now I feel everything. I am outraged, sad, tired, lonely, hollow, disgusted, violent, and so angry. How dare he? He took me for his own, did what he wanted with me, sneered into me with his gruesome fat face, put his heavy body on mine. How fucking dare he? I want him jailed. I want him dead. That man deserves to breathe his last breath, to be wiped off the face of this cruel planet. That Simon fucking Packer.

I call the police station with shaking hands.

‘I’m ready to make my statement. I know who did this to me.’

As I walk down the hallway, the woman who stands aside has his face. He is stood getting a drink at the water cooler. He is a row of three sat at a desk. He is striding along in police uniform, clipboard in hand. He is the woman cleaning the hallway. His face flashes up in front of me at every turn. I walk in to the questioning room, and my eyes adjust to the dark. A table. A small recorder. Four plastic chairs. I swallow harshly and walk towards the desk. I shiver. I can’t believe this is where my life has led me.

The lawyer that sits next to the seat that will be mine has those same dark features. The same wrinkled smirk, the same thick hands that touched me now rest on the table. I blink and shake my head. Nothing. He’s still there. I search every inch of his face for something to tell me I’m fooling myself. It can’t be him. There’s no way. He looks so real. The mirage isn’t fading. He stands and shakes the police woman’s hand.

‘Simon Packer. Marin and Packer Lawyers.’ 

I try to swallow the lump in my throat. My mouth drops open but nothing comes out. My heart falls into my stomach and my knees drop to my ankles. The police officer catches my fall with a firm grab of my elbow.

‘Have a seat Miss Jenkins.’