Little Black Book

Wet. She reached over and with a trembling hand, turned on the light. 2:30am. Breathe. This is my bed, my quilt, my pillows, my sheets, my room in the house I bought. I am here. I feel the sheets on my skin, the sweat sliding down my shoulder blades. It is quiet. I am here. I am safe.

This time wasn’t real. Though phantom pains lingered in her memory, and her ribs, wrists, arms, neck…damn him! The black, monogramed notebook which sat on her bedside table had started this. Three weeks ago, out of the blue, she received a package. A sleek black notebook with crisp pages, monogramed with her name, Hannah Rose Dover. Her married name. Inside was a tally. Three-hundred and eighty-nine strokes. No card or note. Just a return address. Him. He was still there. The slick greasy feeling that slid into her gut she knew too well, as the question clanged through her. How?

Four years and not a peep. Then in one fell swoop he’d shattered her. Again. For two days, every noise, every shadow, even her own reflection, had sent her crouching, swinging or screaming. But he didn’t appear. Only a formal letter from his solicitors informing her she was a beneficiary in his will, and was therefore invited to the reading. She didn’t attend and was still swinging at shadows until a second letter arrived from his solicitors, enclosing a check for $20,000. This was yesterday. It now sat peaking out of the notebook, taunting her.

His solicitors could give her no more information regarding the nature of the check, and claimed no knowledge of the notebook. He’d apparently been in hospital for some ‘tests’, but even those details were notably vague. The only detail the solicitor revealed was the instruction of ‘tell her I’m sorry. Four-hundred times, I’m sorry.’ It was that kernel of information which had kept her tossing and turning with nightmares. She didn’t want his apology. It wasn’t enough. The years of damage, of trauma to unpack and untangle had kept her busy and doubtful. At first everything was tainted by him. Up until last year her workplace was all female. And dating? She’d long since waved that goodbye. $20,000 was no where near enough. Fractured ribs on three separate occasions, ever-present bruises littering her body like the black spots of a Dalmatian, and black eyes – oh. He’d rounded his apologies up to four-hundred. How kind. She would have preferred four-hundred little notes of apology detailing how sorry he was for each individual bruise, and a five-page essay for the more serious events. She didn’t want his blood money. It makes no difference now. It can’t erase the past.

She should rip up the check. Or keep it to spite him. Whatever she spent it on would still be tainted. Perhaps she should splurge on a holiday to the snow. He hated the cold. Complained like an old woman. It was the one bit of teasing he could stand, and, boy, did she take advantage of it. Maybe she could buy a ridiculously overpriced modern art painting that represented society in some way and made some profound statement despite being two lines and a half circle on a canvas. Or some variation. They’d often joked about how little they understood modern art. Recreated it at home using a banana peel, salt, or some spill from an aromatic dinner that James would cook.

Maybe James was genuinely sorry. They never had much money in the first place. He would often cry afterwards. Seeing the damage. Promises, however, were never kept. She had loved him. James had loved her. He was attentive, and would give the best gifts. Yet he lost control so easily. Went from zero to hurting the nearest object within seconds. She thought she could save him, until she couldn’t. The realization only hit her when his hands once made their way towards her neck. She ran. Rather than facing him. Disappeared. Never tried to talk it through. Perhaps she should have. Either way it was too late now. He was dead.

Leaving the notebook by the bedside, she pulled out the check. Walking to her office she found her own checkbook and wrote; for the sum of $20,000, to the white ribbon foundation. She had called the foundation after running. Now, both her and James could help them.