Stronger

Escaping

Glancing at the trees and houses as they whizz by, Abigail sighs deep. Then she looks at her bus ticket. 'One way to Vancouver.' It was her only chance to do something with her life. Getting away from that angry demon of a man, that is her husband. It was a big step for her, but she finally did it. Although it was in a cowardly way, sneaking away at dawn, with bags in hand. She left a note leaning against their wedding photo on the kitchen table. The letter she had written weeks ago and hidden it in her underwear drawer. A place she knew her husband would never dream of venturing. He may have been a monster, but he had principles, and he understood that Abigail's undergarments should be private. The only thing in her life that was.

If she had not left when she did, the runaway knew that her courage would falter, and she would back down, then maybe try again after another 15 long years. But it was happening now, and she felt a little proud of herself as she stared out of the bus window.

Her journey was coming to an end. The houses and trees now became skyscrapers and tall towers, with stores filling the street's end. Abigail's heart races as she glances again at the letter from her penfriend, Diane. Who had invited her for the umpteenth time to visit the bustling city? Every time, she refused, always making some excuse, sending back a reply that would make her heart sink into the pit of her stomach. Although wanting to go and knowing what the answer would be if she had asked.

A buzzing came from her muted phone. She glances at the screen as she turns it over. She holds her breath at the sight of the name. It was Fred. She quickly turns it back and presses it into her thigh, trying to dull the noise. Every time it buzzed; it sent a hopeless feeling throughout her body. The thought of answering did cross her mind. Each vibration made her want to answer. Then it stopped. It was silent. Without hesitation, she switches off the phone, knowing the temptation of answering would end her journey, and she would return home with her tail between her legs, like a beaten dog. Quickly she pushes the phone to the bottom of her bag, then breathes deep as she sits back in her seat. An older woman begins smiling at Abigail from the chair opposite her row as if she knew. Nervously, she smiles back, her bruised cheek meets her blackened eye, and she turns to enjoy the view of the new sights outside her window.

The bus pulls into the station.

"Wow!" she is surprised to see such a grand building as it drives up to the stop. Abigail, now feeling like a new woman, stands and reaches for her small suitcase from the compartment above her seat and then slides the leather strap of her handbag onto her shoulder, clutching the bus ticket of freedom. Then she makes her way through the narrow aisle, trying not to bump any heads with her raised suitcase.

"Excuse me, ooh, sorry, excuse me." The driver makes himself known.

"Wait for the ride to stop and get behind the yellow line!"

Looking at the driver, Abigail takes a deep breath and waits for the bus to stop. The door opens.

"Abigail!" A happy shout of her name made her feel instantly welcome. Diane pushes through the crowd and emerges, waving frantically. Abigail sees her penfriend, the one who has remained in contact for over ten years. From the first day they met, they instantly hit it off.

They were at the beach in White Rock.

Abigail's five-year-old daughter is playing in the sand with Diane's two. All were of a similar age. Through the children, the parents met, well, only Abigail. As her husband, Fred, was in a local pub, drinking their holiday money away. Diane immediately bonded with Abigail, and they agreed to stay in touch. Not having any friends of her own, Abigail constantly wrote to her penfriend as often as possible. Diane acknowledged the demoralizing situation that her waif-like friend has experienced through the immense number of letters received. Each one had a mention of spending time in hospital for another broken bone. Every reply from Diane demanded that Abigail visit. Which she never achieved. Until now. Well, she felt stronger. This new woman gave herself a much-needed boost.

"Okay, Abigail, you can do this." She sighs deeply and raises her head then briefly closes her eyes.

"This will be the last time I cringe and agree to an argument that I did not start. And this would be the last time I feel my stomach knotting in pain, doubling and then tripling, hearing his key unlocking the door. Wondering what type of mood that monster is in, thinking, is this the day when he finally kills me!". Abigail's tone is sombre. "This will be the last time he raises his fist to me!" The elderly lady who smiled earlier overheard the motivating speech and nodded in approval. Abigail replicated the gesture.

In her early days, when she first met Fred, she was quite a looker. Tanned skin and dark eyes with hair to match. The Mediterranean looks with a killer smile that would have eyes on her when she walked into a room. Her character pre-Fred was more confident. She was never afraid to speak up for herself when required. But over time, all of that changed. After fifteen years of marriage, Abigail's confidence faded. Even her underaged daughter fled to live with her boyfriend escaping her parents' constant battles, and she never returned.

Fred is a very insecure and cowardly man, despite all of the angry outbursts. As a child, his mother would often leave him alone in the evenings and spend time hanging around the bars and clubs looking for a potential husband. If her night result hit a loss, she would return to her son, drunk, remove her leather belt and often beat him, blaming him for being alive and stealing her youth. It was his life, all he knew. His hatred for women started.

When his mother died, although he married and has a daughter, Fred felt alone. He became an angry drunk, spending the same amount of time seated on a bar stool in the neighbourhood pub as his mother did before. He was there checking out the local talent. While unaware, Abigail is the dutiful wife at home, preparing meals and taking care of their daughter.

Insecurity drove Fred to watch every move of his wife. She was never allowed to meet new people, especially men, fearing the accusation of sleeping around. The same allegations would fly during an argument. And if, by chance, Abigail happened to be winning, it would result in raising his fists. Fred had quite a hold over his wife. The poor oppressed woman, once a beauty, now a haunched shadow of herself, spent many a time in the district hospital with broken limbs. The constant excuse was falling down the stairs or walking into a cupboard door. The hospital staff tried on many an occasion to help Abigail, but she never excepted.

Diane understood her situation and demanded that her penfriend leave him and stay with her. Nothing there is keeping her at the mercy of that demon.

Of the many letters that Abigail mailed to Diane, the most recent stuck out. It was about a specific evening when Fred had gone straight to the pub from work. It was payday, and the helpless wife knew that not a penny of his wages would reach the overdue bills.

To fill her evening and calm her nerves, she would cook him a meal and clean until everything sparkled. When she finished, she would spend the rest of the evening watching the clock. Never the television or listening to music, her mind was in too much of a battle to relax. Abigail cleaned to cope with stress, not knowing what mood Fred would arrive in, and she cooked to please him. Although, if he'd had a bad day, whatever she created would end up on the walls. There are stains and holes where many a meal had hit. Signs of anger joined in splodges and destruction across the kitchen cupboards.

She would stare at the hour hands, willing them to go in reverse, slow down, or even stop, but that was not to be.

The time had arrived, just past midnight. Abigail could time how long it would take her drunken husband to get home and what state he would be. She could hear the metal from the key scrape across the lock, and each time he missed, the profanity from his lips. She swallows hard as the door opens, watching as her inebriated husband falls through the doorway and slides down the wall, pulling a few coats with him. He lay on the welcome mat laughing and shouting. Abigail could smell the liquor from his breath as he laughed. Quickly she opens the oven door and grabs the baked food plate with a folded tea towel. Fred drags himself from the welcome mat and proceeds towards the dining table, slumping into the chair. He slurs.

"Wife! Where's my dinner!" Instantly she places the hot plate of charred food in front of her husband. He grabs the cutlery and stabs at the hardened meat. As he attempts to saw the beef with an upside-down knife, his grip slips, and he scolds his skin on the blistering plate. Although it burns, he stands pushing the chair out, which screeches across the tiled floor, forgetting how a moment ago the heat blistered his fingertips, grabbing the plate and throws it at the wall. Abigail screams, terrified, watching wide-eyed as her husband raises his hand, clenching his fist. Then with an almighty force, it connects with her cheek. She hears a crack as the bone shatters on impact. Abigail falls to the floor, banging her knees on the tiles. Pain throbs enveloping her body as she curls into a ball. Fred begins to kick her endlessly in the stomach and head. Abigail gives in to her doom and takes the beating. She lay still, just the slight jolt when he kicked her, feeling numb, not even crying through the pain.

Later that night, when her husband is lying unconscious on the sofa, she carefully pulls her beaten body off the cold tile floor, cautiously scanning that evil man while he sleeps. He begins to snore loudly. Although in so much pain, Abigail moves as quickly as she can towards the staircase. Her face throbbing, the bruising is starting to appear. She climbs up the stairs, one careful step at a time. Every move she makes is more painful than the last. Holding her stomach and balancing her weight, she glides along the railing, pulling herself up the stairs. It creaks; she stops and glares at her husband. He continues to snore. She finishes the climb and limps to her bedroom, catching a glimpse of her blackened eye and bruised cheek as she hobbles by the vanity dresser mirror. That is the moment when she decided enough is enough.

When Diane read the letter, she quickly replied with just three words.

"Leave him, Abigail!"

Now, stepping off the last step of the bus, Abigail scans, searching for her friend. Diane is waving frantically, buried amongst the crowd of people waiting to board the bus.

"Abigail!" A scream from her penfriend sends a feeling of relief spreading throughout her body. Diane grabs her friend and hugs her tight.

"That man will never hurt you again." Diane takes the small suitcase from Abigail. Her poor frail friend cries, beaming a huge smile that hurts her face. Diane smiles.

"Let's go home."

They walk arm in arm through the illuminated tunnel heading towards the parking bay.

The end.