Behind her crafted mask … Part 5…

I sit up choking on air, on saliva, on bitter dreams and poisoned memories.



Its always the same dream. Its always the same sad dream. And I always wake up before I give her my answer.



Its 3 am. My daughter lies asleep in her cot beside me. My husband rambles something incoherent about 20 bucks and someone’s face. And I sit here, drowning in a pool of night sweats, stale dreams and rotting memories. Will I always dream this dream? Will I always crave that someone strokes my hair like my mother did before him….




I remember how I would play the scene out in my mind….


I’m standing outside her bedroom door knocking softly, persistently while she lay asleep. I would stand there for a long time wondering how would I tell her. I hesitated before I entered her room. I see her knocked out cold, her arm dangles off the side of the bed, she snores lightly and her chest heaves rhythmically. How do I wake her up and say, ‘Mum, I just killed your husband’…

Do I shake her? Do I pull the sheet off her to wake her? Do I start by saying , ” we need to talk” or do I jump right into it and say, “He’s dead! He came to my room again and this time I couldn’t take it! I hid the knife under my pillow waiting for the door handle to turn and to creak. And when it did, my eyes glistened with delight. I promised myself that this would be the last night that he touched me”…



I have fantasized about doing this, about taking the knife and spearing it into his back while he lay on top of me, every single night. I have watched myself do this and then stand outside her bedroom door and knock and knock and knock while he lay on the pink carpet of my bedroom floor turning it into a shade of scarlet. Alas, it was just that, a fantasy and nothing more. I’ve killed him every night for more than 20 years in my head and in my dreams yet he still walks,he’s still alive and untouched, unharmed, walking aimlessly somewhere, I don’t know where. Maybe on a crowded city street alongside tall skyscrapers as he pulls his coat over his head making his way through the spring rains running to catch a bus that he is late for… or perhaps he walks slowly on a quiet suburban avenue lined with pretty oak trees,watching a little girl playing on her front lawn, moving like a shadow, like a ghost, haunting someone else’s dreams, he walks…..



His other favorite girl said that she had no idea. No idea what he was doing to me. None whatsoever! She was…. clueless! Clueless? Did she really not know what was going on behind my closed bedroom door every night?
Perhaps that’s why she took one too many sleeping pills. So that she wouldn’t see and couldn’t know what happens. Perhaps not....
I decided to hate her anyway.
And so I did….
But every time that I saw someone that reminded me of her, I had the sudden craving to have them run their fingers through my hair.



The desire was too intense, sometimes it drove me insane! So I stood before my bathroom sink as tresses of chestnut hair fell from the air into the basin. I cut my hair off. I didn’t want to desire her affection or her touch. But I still did….




To be continued…



6 thoughts on “Behind her crafted mask … Part 5…

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