Charlotte’s Lullaby

Have you ever made yourself into a tight little ball? A tiny space so that you can’t offend? A speck, like dust?

Have you ever felt shame so deep, that it feels like organ failure? As if your body is disowning itself?

I’d stopped speaking. I was forever choking on words, a dictionary of indigestion pushing at my chest. I had swallowed so many words, that I’d been left gasping for air.

I had stretched myself thin, all my thoughts, feelings and desires straining to protect the kernel that said he loved me. The fabric of my being was so tight that all the threads had light shining through them, like invisible mending.

I no longer walked with purpose. I tiptoed, daintily, joylessly dancing.

My fingers tingled with tiredness. There was a thumping in my head, a nagging pulling at my limbs that repeated on a loop. I was disappearing under a mantra that I wasn’t good enough.

This was me, 60 seconds ago. Some pathetic, chained-up, no-hoper. I smelt of day old musk, greasy hair, my finger nails tender and uneven.

I’d fallen hard for him. He was charming, sophisticated. He’d sent me whirling and twirling, dizzy, unsure. His voice became my voice.

60 seconds ago, Kevin was standing in front of me. His rage coming at me like a hand-drier in a public bathroom. His eyes wide and bloodshot. His knuckles bleached by the tightness of his fists.

I’d seen this before. I’d been the person who trembled as his hands thumped down on the table, dislodging cups. I’d been the jump-shock. And I’d convinced myself that I was the only one who could help his troubled soul. That the hurt and the anger would dissipate because he knew I loved him. I’d sacrificed my space so that he could fill a room with the scale of his emotions.

He pulled a plant off the window-ledge. This was the only piece of me allowed in the house. The one bit of me that furnished our apartment. The potted plants, the love and nourishment, the green, the vitality.

50 seconds ago, the first plant hit the ground. I shrieked despite myself and then swallowed the noise down, like an unchewed chicken nugget.

40 seconds ago the second plant in its secure pot was pulled out by the roots.

In the corner was Lola, the Yucca plant. It was in the early days, when we had joked and played that I had said I was going to give her a name. There were giggles and hand-holding as we paid for our new pet. I’d watered and fed her. I’d re-potted her as she grew. I used to talk to her before I lost my voice. And then I whispered instead. I promised her that I would look after her. She was tall, strong, heavy, stable. Kevin couldn’t pull her out of her pot.

30 seconds ago I felt the tug at her leaves like a child getting a pony-tail, too high, too tight.

20 seconds ago, I watched Kevin go to the kitchen and heard him throw things. The space I had worked to keep ordered and tidy, to meet his requirements, being sacrificed. He came back with a bottle of bleach.

10 seconds ago, he poured the bleach into Lola’s pot.

5 seconds ago, I left the apartment.

I’m standing outside. I hear him scream my name, “Charlotte”. It is an extended 12 inch re-mix of my name. I want to cry out. I want to curse him, but my voice is still too unsure.

So, instead I hum. I hum a lullaby to myself. I love my voice. It is sweet, melodic, joyful.

Tomorrow it will be a roar.

If you've enjoyed what you have read, consider subscribing to my writing on Vocal. If you'd like to support my writing, you can do so by leaving a one-time tip or a regular pledge. Thank you.