Tormented.
I’ve been unable to trust
anything anymore—my judgement, my sanity, not even a locked door.
Nothing feels safe.
I kept the nightmare to myself
because I thought I could keep that night there, in the past.
Secured in a tiny segment of my brain, so I wouldn’t have to
remember. But it’s not in the past. It’s everywhere. In everything.
I thought keeping silent would make me feel safe from the shame
that people would see in me, but silence doesn’t make it go away,
either.
I can’t fool myself anymore,
though. Can’t hide behind the mask I’ve built. Can’t convince
myself I’m over it. Can’t stay silent, because I know I’m falling
apart. I owe it to myself and my survival to face it now. I’m
alive…but not living, and what kind of life is that?
And now I’ve been offered a life
raft from the ocean. I’m choosing hope now, because I’m tired of
being in hell.
It’s a start. Admitting it to
myself is enough for now. I put the journal and pen back on my
bedside table and turn off the light.
Only when I’m drifting off to
sleep do I realize it’s the first night I haven’t sat in front of
the door with a knife in my hand.
20
BEN
I walk into the building and say
hi to the receptionist. She already knows me by now; I’ve been
coming here since I moved to Cambridge. Every week without fail or
I’d be in serious shit.
I lean back in the uncomfortable
plastic chair and cross my foot over my knee, wondering whether
Grace read the book I gave her yet.
‘You can go in now,’ the
receptionist says without a smile. She probably thinks I’m a
worthless piece of rubbish, too.
I walk along the corridor to an
office with a nameplate that reads, “Mark Graves—Parole
Officer”.
I know the first thing he’s
going to say when he sees the state of my face. The bruises have
faded a bit, but you still can’t miss them.
I knock. Push the door open.
He looks up at me from behind
his desk. ‘Please tell me that’s not from a fight.’
‘I was in a car accident.’ I sit
in front of his desk piled high with paperwork and folders.
He regards me sternly for a
while. I don’t take offence. He’s only doing his job, and he’s been
incredibly helpful and supportive over the last two years since I
was released from prison on license. As a condition of my license,
I have to do a certain amount of volunteer work, and Mark managed
to set up the volunteer self-defence classes I teach. He’s also the
one who got me the part-time counselling jobs I’ve had so far, and
enables the supervised sessions I’ve done so I can be accredited to
the counselling association and finally apply for full time work.
So, yeah, I’ll never have a bad word to say about the guy.
‘You can check with the
hospital,’ I say. ‘They’ll tell you what happened.
‘I will.’ He opens my file and
writes something down. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ He sits back in his seat
and studies me. ‘So, this is your final appointment with me. After
this, you’re officially released from your parole license.’
‘I want to thank you for
everything you’ve done.’
‘I’m just glad to help with your
rehabilitation back into society again. I have to say, you’ve been
a pleasure to work with, Ben. You should be proud of how far you’ve
come.’
I smile, even though ‘proud’ is
the very last thing I feel.
He leans forward and reads my
file. ‘I see your counselling accreditation has come through, so
you’re officially able to counsel unsupervised. Good job, Ben. Have
you applied for any full time jobs yet?’
‘I’ve got an interview
soon.’
‘Excellent. Where?’
‘The Clover Project. It’s a
drop-in centre that supports women in violent or abusive
relationships.’
‘I’m familiar with The Clover
Project. It would be good for you, since you want to specialize in
rape counselling.’
I don’t tell him about working
in the coffee shop, too, because officially, I don’t
I’ve been unable to trust
anything anymore—my judgement, my sanity, not even a locked door.
Nothing feels safe.
I kept the nightmare to myself
because I thought I could keep that night there, in the past.
Secured in a tiny segment of my brain, so I wouldn’t have to
remember. But it’s not in the past. It’s everywhere. In everything.
I thought keeping silent would make me feel safe from the shame
that people would see in me, but silence doesn’t make it go away,
either.
I can’t fool myself anymore,
though. Can’t hide behind the mask I’ve built. Can’t convince
myself I’m over it. Can’t stay silent, because I know I’m falling
apart. I owe it to myself and my survival to face it now. I’m
alive…but not living, and what kind of life is that?
And now I’ve been offered a life
raft from the ocean. I’m choosing hope now, because I’m tired of
being in hell.
It’s a start. Admitting it to
myself is enough for now. I put the journal and pen back on my
bedside table and turn off the light.
Only when I’m drifting off to
sleep do I realize it’s the first night I haven’t sat in front of
the door with a knife in my hand.
20
BEN
I walk into the building and say
hi to the receptionist. She already knows me by now; I’ve been
coming here since I moved to Cambridge. Every week without fail or
I’d be in serious shit.
I lean back in the uncomfortable
plastic chair and cross my foot over my knee, wondering whether
Grace read the book I gave her yet.
‘You can go in now,’ the
receptionist says without a smile. She probably thinks I’m a
worthless piece of rubbish, too.
I walk along the corridor to an
office with a nameplate that reads, “Mark Graves—Parole
Officer”.
I know the first thing he’s
going to say when he sees the state of my face. The bruises have
faded a bit, but you still can’t miss them.
I knock. Push the door open.
He looks up at me from behind
his desk. ‘Please tell me that’s not from a fight.’
‘I was in a car accident.’ I sit
in front of his desk piled high with paperwork and folders.
He regards me sternly for a
while. I don’t take offence. He’s only doing his job, and he’s been
incredibly helpful and supportive over the last two years since I
was released from prison on license. As a condition of my license,
I have to do a certain amount of volunteer work, and Mark managed
to set up the volunteer self-defence classes I teach. He’s also the
one who got me the part-time counselling jobs I’ve had so far, and
enables the supervised sessions I’ve done so I can be accredited to
the counselling association and finally apply for full time work.
So, yeah, I’ll never have a bad word to say about the guy.
‘You can check with the
hospital,’ I say. ‘They’ll tell you what happened.
‘I will.’ He opens my file and
writes something down. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ He sits back in his seat
and studies me. ‘So, this is your final appointment with me. After
this, you’re officially released from your parole license.’
‘I want to thank you for
everything you’ve done.’
‘I’m just glad to help with your
rehabilitation back into society again. I have to say, you’ve been
a pleasure to work with, Ben. You should be proud of how far you’ve
come.’
I smile, even though ‘proud’ is
the very last thing I feel.
He leans forward and reads my
file. ‘I see your counselling accreditation has come through, so
you’re officially able to counsel unsupervised. Good job, Ben. Have
you applied for any full time jobs yet?’
‘I’ve got an interview
soon.’
‘Excellent. Where?’
‘The Clover Project. It’s a
drop-in centre that supports women in violent or abusive
relationships.’
‘I’m familiar with The Clover
Project. It would be good for you, since you want to specialize in
rape counselling.’
I don’t tell him about working
in the coffee shop, too, because officially, I don’t
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