I Unlove You (53 page)

She
tucked me in that night and said everything was fine. That he
didn
’
t mean it. That he loved her, and he loved me,
too.
“
His way of showing how much he cares
”
, she
said.

I
knew it wasn
’
t okay, but I loved
him because he was my father. He never touched me. He never raised
his voice at me, but I could always tell when he
’
d hit
her. Something changed. I saw my mother in a new light, and I saw
her pain, understood her sadness. He never hit her in the face.
Never left a mark so others could see. But I saw. I saw her arms
and chest and legs. I saw her eyes, and the secrets they
held.

I
suddenly had a secret to keep, and I
’
ve spent the rest of
my life gathering them
…
keeping them
…
suffocating under the
weight of them.

“
Your daddy loves
you,
”
she
’
d say.
“
He loves me, too.
Don
’
t tell anyone. Other grown-ups won
’
t
understand.
”

I began to hate him, yet at the
same time, I loved him because he was my daddy. He played with me.
He loved me. Where mum was sad and vacant, he brimmed with energy
and pride for his little girl. On the outside he must have seemed
like the perfect father, always playing with me at the park and
making me laugh, hugging me.

When he did hug me, I flinched. Every time he came near me,
I held a breath. I battled this inner war, unable to decide between
love and hate. He never hit me and was a good father to me, but I
feared him, and hated how he made my mother sad. I
couldn
’
t understand why he did it, and I suppose I
still can
’
t.

Things changed when I turned ten. For a few months,
everything seemed to be okay. Mum began to smile, and I could tell
he didn
’
t hit her anymore. I thought that maybe
everything might be okay. She regained a glint in her eye, the same
sparkle as when we watched those old movies. So did he. He
didn
’
t seem so angry, but when he looked at me it
wasn
’
t the same.

My nightmares today always begin
the same, the creaking door slowly opening.

“
Hey, sleepy
girl,
”
he
’
d say.
“
You go back to sleep. Daddy loves
you.
”

The
first time he did it I cried into my pillow. The other times, I
closed my eyes until it was over. I closed my eyes and emptied my
mind, numbing the world and pushing every thought deep, deep down.
Every time a thought popped up, I pushed it. Every time I felt
pain, I pushed it. All of a sudden, I had a secret of my own, not
one of my mother
’
s. In some ways, I
felt special.

I
can
’
t recall the detail, and I hope I never will. I know I
should have told you at some point, because I do love you and trust
you, but the truth is, I refused to believe it was real. Deep down,
I knew I was keeping a secret, hiding and running away, but it was
easier than facing the truth. Because the truth means reliving the
detail, and I cannot live with the detail, Aus. I
can
’
t do it.

I
’
m so embarrassed and ashamed, although
I
’
m not sure why. After all, it wasn
’
t me
doing it. I always thought I must be to blame, because how broken
must a child be for a father to do that to his daughter? He was
supposed to love me, but he must have hated me to do what he did.
Not once
…
so many times, a mere blur.

I
didn
’
t know if it would ever stop. He said it was his way
of proving his love to me, and that it made him feel so happy he
didn
’
t get angry at Mummy anymore. He
didn
’
t hit her after that, and it was because he loved me
so much. I felt special because I was protecting my mum and making
my dad happy all at the same time.

But
I also felt broken, worthless and empty, and the only way I felt
better was by pushing everything down
…
down
…
as far down as I could
push.

Shortly before my eleventh
birthday, my mother caught him. If seeing him hit her for the first
time stole my innocence, and the first time he touched me stole my
childhood, it was the moment she caught us when I lost
everything.

It
was dark like all the other nights, just him and me alone in my
small bed. All of a sudden, white light filled the room, my
stinging eyes struggling to see my mother
’
s outline in
the doorway. She didn
’
t say a word. She
didn
’
t cry. She seemed so calm, but in an instant she moved
across the room and reached for an old wooden bookend sitting on my
nightstand.

Shaped like an elephant, I loved
it. My grandmother gave it to me when I was five or six years-old,
and she said it would protect me from monsters at night. That night
it did protect me from the worst monster of all, because before my
father had chance to escape from my bed she struck him.

She
only hit him once, and she didn
’
t seem angry whilst
she did it. So calm. So sure of herself. She
didn
’
t say a word, and before I knew what happened, she
scooped me out of bed and held me close. I didn
’
t realise
blood covered half my pyjamas or my entire right arm. I
didn
’
t know he was dead. She just held me then cleaned me
up in the bathroom, and told me everything would be
okay.

That no matter what happened, she
loved me, and everything would be okay.

But nothing was ever okay again.
She died that night, just like I did. The secret was too big, and
neither of us have ever been able to escape it.

I
don
’
t remember much afterwards. I suppose I was in shock,
and we
’
ve never spoken about it since. She told me the
next morning,
“
Beatrice, I love you so much. I know you have more
secrets than any girl should ever have to keep, but I must ask you
to keep one more. Your father won
’
t hurt either of us
again, and Uncle John is going to help us get away from here so we
can start a new life. A good life. One where we can be happy and
safe.

“
But he can only help us if
neither of us tell anyone about what happened last night. Ever. Can
you do that for me, sweetie? Can you keep one final
secret?
”

Nodding and hugging her, I kept
our biggest secret of all. Uncle John was in the police, so he was
able to help us cover everything up. I was too young to know the
details, and I never asked about them since. He told me what to say
and what not to say, but to be honest, none if it
mattered.

I
’
d already blocked the night out, and so many
others before it. I kept thinking about my
mother
’
s words, when she said we could start a new
life. A good one. One where we could be happy.

When we moved to Halifax that
’
s what I decided to
do. I
’
d be happy. I
’
d smile. I
’
d be
chatty and popular and everything I could never previously be,
because I had this dark shadow consuming me. Where I was once too
shy and broken to talk and smile, I
’
d laugh and work
hard and make friends with everyone. I
’
d be happy on
the outside even if I remained dead within.

But
you, Aus, you did make me happy. You helped me find love when I
didn
’
t think it possible. I have too many secrets, and many
of them are far too dark to share; I collect secrets like other
girls collect shoes. You genuinely made me happy, but
I
’
d replace my old fears and nightmares with new
ones.

I
can
’
t tell you everything, Aus. I know you deserve more,
but trust me, you don
’
t want the truth.
You don
’
t want to know everything I know.
I
’
ve always been broken, but you honestly helped me.
You
’
ve given me hope that one day I
’
ll be
able to escape and replace my nightmares with happiness and dreams
and fantasies.

With this little boy on the verge of life, I now know I
can
’
t run away from these nightmares. I cannot continue to
push these secrets down. It
’
s no longer about me
protecting myself; I need to protect him. I can
’
t be this
version of
B
anymore, and I can
’
t remain here. Just
like when we moved to Halifax, I have a chance to start a new life.
A good life. A happy life.

I
’
m not sure what that consists of, to be honest,
but I have a genuine reason to figure it out. I
’
m just
sorry I had to hurt you along the way, and I
’
m sorry
you have to live the rest of your life with this secret. I will
always love you, Ausdylan Elvis Ashford, but the time has come to
let go.

The girl you used to
love,

B
x

DECEMBER 29
^th
- THE PUB:

Over the years, I
’
ve sat on every
bench, chair, and stool in this pub. Alongside
B
, or opposite Joey, or
sharing a table with my parents, I
’
ve talked about
music and life and silly ideas that may never happen.
It
’
s where Joey tends to muster dreams, dreams that
don
’
t start life as my own, but soon become part of my
fantasies.

In a few days a new year will
begin, and with it, a new version of me that I must
discover.

A
new job, somewhere. Words to write, after far too long. Music to
play; more gigs on their way. Countries to see, people to meet, and
a true sense of freedom to set me free. I don
’
t know
what tomorrow holds, or the day after, but I must escape
yesterday.

The
past haunts, but I
’
m not unique in this
regard. Every person I meet has a past, some of it filled with
good, other aspects bad. I have much to be thankful for, but a
great deal to regret. I may never forget, and may live a lifetime
before I heal, but I must move forward, because
what
’
s the alternative?

The
type of Christmas music I hate plays over the speakers; in a few
days it will disappear for another ten months.
It
’
s not quite Christmas anymore, but it still feels
hopeful and merry. The old men around the bar smile as they drink,
and Harriet wears a chunk of holly in her hair; as she has done for
a week.

I love Christmas and the perk it
brings to each step. It reminds me of special times and wonderful
memories of food, of family dancing and singing. This year, it
crawled past in secret, fearful of whisking my daydreams
away.

I sat in the dark for hours after
reading her final letter. Turning the pages over, they remained on
the countertop the entire time. I feared them, shed tears over
them, because no matter what happens and has happened, I love her
and care for her, but sense I can never allow myself to be in love
with her again.

Joey didn
’
t return home, and I
didn
’
t see him until we had our gig the next day. We played
and got through it, but it wasn
’
t the same. Each
time we sit with one another and drink and talk, it
isn
’
t the same. When our families got together on
Christmas Eve, like we always do, it wasn
’
t the
same.