… really shouldn’t have any more to drink, had way too much aquavit at Ma’s and Grandpa’s. But I reach for the vodka. Lukewarm vodka, neat. Knock it back and set the glass down on the coffee table. Put my hands behind my head and lie back on the sofa. Look at Mona and grin. At her slim, white body. Her tiny belly button, pierced belly button. I like that piercing, little ring in her belly button. And her pointy little breasts, lovely breasts. She bends down and sets her beer bottle on the floor, just next to the rat’s cage, and there’s a faint rustling from the cage as she does it. It’s that bloody rat of hers moving about, never liked that bloody rat. I gaze at Mona and she gazes back at me, comes over and stands in front of me. Stands between my legs, perfectly still. And I sit perfectly still. Sit with my hands behind my head and my fingers laced together. Flex my biceps slightly. Big, bulging biceps. Send little ripples through my biceps. I know how much she likes a bit of muscle. Big muscles corded with veins. I know how hot it makes her. I look at her and grin, flash my broken front tooth at her. I know she likes that too, don’t know why, but she does, says it makes me look more manly. My eyes travel down to her cunt and I swallow. Smooth, shaved cunt. Right in front of me. And then she puts her hands on my shoulders. Looks down at me as she does it. Her horny eyes, playful eyes and half-open mouth. I look at her and grin, place my hands on her hips, my big hands. Draw her a bit closer. Just keeping my eyes fixed on hers now, her eyes are glowing.
“Sit on me!” I tell her.
My voice low, husky. And she does as I say. Sits astride me, one knee on either side of my thighs. Grips my cock, big cock, grips it with her left hand and slides down onto it, slowly. I look down at her as she does it, watch her wet cunt sliding down onto my cock, swallowing more and more of my cock. Stiff cock. Been drinking all evening and all night, but my cock’s hard as a rock. I’m so horny. And then she starts to ride me. Rides me nice and easy. Moving gently. Feels so fucking good. I cup my hands round her buttocks. Big hands, broad. Dig the tips of my fingers into her buttocks, lightly. Massage them, knead them. And she moans softly. Tips her head back and shuts her eyes. Runs her tongue over her lips. Moistening her red lips. It’s so fucking good. And I’m seething with desire. I gaze at her breasts. Little pointy breasts with stiff nipples. Stiff nipples. Just like it says on her T-shirt. And I’m seething inside. I feel my mouth fall open, feel my lips drawing back and curling slightly. It crosses my mind that I must look even hornier when I do that, look savage, like a wild beast almost. I picture it, that look, and I squeeze her buttocks a bit harder. Picture the marks on her white buttocks, it usually leaves red fingermarks on her bum when I do that. It’s so fucking good. Savage. Run my fingertips down to her bum crack. Part her buttocks and feel her slide even further down onto me. I thought I was as far inside her as I could go, but now I slide even further in. Her cunt wrapping itself round my cock. Tight, warm cunt. And I let out a great groan. From way down deep in my belly. A kind of grunt. And Mona moans. A short, high-pitched moan. Keeps on riding me, riding gently, steadily. And I gaze at her hungrily. Gaze at her with glowing eyes. And she shuts her eyes. Sticks out her tongue and licks her lips. Red lips, glistening lips. I shut my eyes.
“Oh yeah,” I gasp, my voice husky, gruff. “Yeah! Come on baby! Ride my pony!” I say, my words a little slurred. I’ve had too much to drink, I shouldn’t have knocked it back the way I did before we came home, had way too much aquavit. Didn’t stop me getting a hard-on, though, no problem there. But what now? Why’s she stopping. She’s stopped riding me. I open my eyes and look at her. Suddenly there’s laughter in her face. She looks away, tries to hide it by glancing to the side, but she can’t. Tries to start riding me again, but can’t do that either. She just sits there laughing, laughing at what I said.
A second, and then I feel my face getting hot. I hadn’t meant to say what I said, but I said it, it just slipped out and now she’s sitting there laughing. I’m getting hotter and hotter, I’m going red, I know I’m going red. As if I should have more reason to be embarrassed than her. As if she’s any better than me. Sitting there with her eyes shut, moaning heavily and showing me her tongue. Trying to look like a porn model. That’s what she was doing. And yet there she is, sitting on top of me, smirking. She’s no fucking better than me and yet she’s making fun of me. I stare at her. Feel the desire drain out of me, my cock shrink, feel it contract and slip right out of her. And all of a sudden I’m lying here with a limp little cock, a pygmy prick. And she’s sitting on top of me, laughing. Smirking. And then comes the rage. This enormous wave. It rises up inside me. I stare at her for a second, then I feel my lips widen in a thin smile. A cold smile. There’s this wild rage inside me, but on the outside I’m cold and calm.
“Sorry, Tom Roger,” she says, laughing as she says it. “Sorry,” she gasps again. A second, and then she puts her hand over her mouth. Tries to stifle her laughter. Her shoulders are shaking. And the rage builds up inside me. Sitting there laughing at me. Making fun of me. And the rage surges up inside me. This wild rage. Overwhelming me. But I keep smiling. Smiling calmly as I clench my right fist. Give it a second and then I let fly. All of a sudden. Smack on the mouth. Feel my knuckles connecting with her front teeth. That feeling of front teeth giving slightly, wonderful feeling. Hard teeth bending back into the mouth. It only lasts for a fraction of a second and then she topples off me and lands on her back on the floor. Cold, sharp slap as the naked body hits the wooden floor. Another second, then I get up off the sofa. Unsteadily. I’m even drunker than I thought. I stagger a bit as I make my way over to the armchair. Lift my boxer shorts off the chair, red boxer shorts. Taking it nice and easy. I’ve got this wild rage inside me, but on the outside I’m cool and calm. I don’t even look at Mona. Smile as I step into my boxer shorts. Bend down and pick my trousers off the floor, put them on, nice and easy. Look at her as I zip up my fly. Smile calmly, coolly. And Mona puts a hand to her mouth and cries softly. The blood seeps between her fingers, red blood on her slim white hand.
“You’ve got no reason to laugh, Mona,” I say. I hear my voice. Cool, almost soft voice. “I’m not the only one who gets ideas from those porn movies we watch,” I say as I bend down and pick up my vest. “The way you lick your lips, you didn’t come up with that yourself.”
I pause. Pull on my vest, tight-fitting vest, hugging my body, big brawny body. I blink. I’m drunker than I thought. I blink lazily. Look at her and smile. See her frightened eyes, bird eyes. The faint flutter in her throat as she swallows.
“But I don’t laugh at you for that,” I go on, smiling.
“I’m sorry, Tom Roger,” she stammers.
“That’s okay. Now go and clean yourself up and we’ll forget all about it,” I say.
My speech is a bit slurred. I give it a couple of seconds. But she doesn’t get up. Just sits there crying.
“Hey!” I say. I give it a second, but she doesn’t react. “Hey!” I say again, a bit louder this time. Sharper. “Don’t give me that pathetic look,” I say. But she just sits there. Sits there looking miserable, hurt. Puts her hand to her mouth, wipes the blood off her chin. A second, and then the rage surges through me again, explodes.
“Stop that, for fuck’s sake!” I roar.
I hear my harsh, grating voice. A voice that fills the whole room. I see Mona jump. She flinches, puts her hands over her ears. I stare at her with wild, bulging eyes. There’s this enormous rage pressing against the backs of my eyes, pounding. I give it a second, then I shake my head. Suddenly I’m perfectly calm inside, it’s like pressing a button, it just happens.
“I’m sorry, Mona,” I say. I pick up the vodka bottle and fill my glass. Look at her as I raise my glass to my lips. I really shouldn’t have any more. I’m more than drunk enough, but I knock it back anyway. Lukewarm vodka, neat. “I didn’t mean to shout, but I can’t take that pathetic look of yours,” I say, setting my glass down on the table with a little clunk. Wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Look at Mona and smile. “But we’ll forget all about that now,” I say. “Shall we?” I ask. I look at her, give it a moment. But she doesn’t answer. “Hmm?” I say.
“Yes,” she says softly.
“And talk normally!” I snap. “I can’t take that pathetic tone of yours either. Okay, now we’re both going to get a grip,” I say. “Right?”
She looks at me and nods. Tries to smile. But it’s not a genuine smile. It’s a watery smile designed to make me feel sorry for her. And I gaze at the floor. I sigh and shake my head. Stand like that, looking exasperated for a moment or two, then I raise my eyes and look at her again. Wait a moment. Blink slowly.
There’s total silence.
“Well do it, then!” I roar.
I suddenly switch and start roaring at her. I explode. It just happens. A harsh, grating roar that comes from way down deep in my belly. A beast that wants out of me, needs to get out.
“Don’t, Tom Roger!” she whimpers.
And I twist my face into a sneer.
“Don’t, Tom Roger,” I say, mimicking her.
I hear my voice, all distorted, stupid sounding.
“Oh, please!” she whimpers.
“Oh, please!” I repeat, mimicking her again.
I walk right up to her. Stare at her. See the terror in her eyes. Bird eyes. She edges away. Pushing off with her heels and trying to get away. But I walk after her. My feet. Feet walking across the living room floor. Walking slowly. Walking right up to her. I tense every muscle in my body as I bend over her. My big, bulging muscles. And my eyes bulge, grow big and round as eggs. Big, bulging eyes. The rage presses against the back of my eyes, pounds, my eyes feel like they’re about to pop right out of my head and my face is all twisted. I feel the rage pulling my face out of shape. The beast is taking over.
“Would you stop that, please?” I roar.
But she doesn’t stop, she just carries on. Sobbing, pleading, with her hands covering her face.
“Stop it, dammit!” I roar, roaring as loud as I can, and it feels like my throat is going to burst, crack, it’s like my throat is too small for such a big voice, a voice that fills the whole room.
“Tom Roger,” she sobs, whimpers.
Two seconds.
“Hey,” I say, and suddenly my voice is perfectly normal again, my voice is almost gentle now, I don’t know why, it just is, it just happens. “Hey, didn’t you hear what I said?” I ask. “Hmm? Didn’t you hear me? Don’t I exist?” I say, a little louder this time. “Is that it?” I say. “I asked you to wipe that pathetic fucking look off your face! Could you do me that one favour, please?” I say. “Is that too much to ask?” I say. “Well? Is it?” I say, staring at her with my big, bulging, egg-like eyes.
But she just keeps going. She won’t fucking stop. Just sits there sobbing, whimpering. Doing exactly the opposite of what I’ve asked her to do.
“Stop it, Tom Roger,” she sobs.
“I’m to stop it?” I shout, seething. I straighten up sharply. Stare at her and grin furiously. Fling out my hand and try to look as if I can’t believe my ears. “I’m to stop it? I ask you as nicely as I can to wipe that pathetic look off your face and talk normally, but instead you do the exact opposite and start howling,” I say. I bend down to her again just as sharply. Bring my face right down to hers. “But I’m to stop it,” I say. “It’s not enough that you sneer and smirk at me when we’re having sex, then you try to fucking antagonize me as well!”
“Oh, please, Tom Roger!” she whimpers. Peers at me through the gaps in her spread fingers, her eyes terrified.
“Talk properly!” I roar, roar so loud that I see her hair lifting in the blast. “If I hear one more whimper out of you I’ll punch you right through the ceiling!” I roar. “Get it?” I roar.
She draws her legs up to her chest, hides her face behind her knees and covers her head with her hands. And I just stand there. Staring at her. But still she won’t fucking stop. She’s doing the exact opposite of what I asked her to do. Always the exact opposite. Sitting there whimpering. Crying. And it explodes inside me. This great surge of rage. It fills me. It breaks out of me. This beast. It bursts out, leaps forward. And I put my left hand to the back of her head, grab hold of her long hair, coil her hair round my left hand, grip it tight, hold her fast. Grin furiously through clenched teeth.
“Ow, that hurts, Tom Roger. Let go, it hurts … it hurts,” she cries and I haul on her hair, bend her head back … “Tom Roger, Tom Roger,” … hoist her up by her hair, drag her up onto her feet … “Tom Roger, please. Let me go, let go …” Fine, fair hair coiled tight round my fist. I bend her head back until her face is turned upwards, white face shining at me, and her throat, long and exposed, the faint flutter in her throat when she swallows. I bring my face right down to hers, stare into her big eyes, scared bird eyes. “Tom Roger, let go, ow, ow, that hurts …” Her breath on my face, the smell of beer …
“No, don’t hit me, Tom Roger, please.”
I take a step towards her and she backs away, putting her hands out in front of her as she backs away, but I just brush them aside, brush aside both her hands with my left hand, roughly, so roughly that she loses her balance and staggers to the side, she has to put out a hand to stop herself from falling, knocks the cactus over as she sticks out her hand. There’s a dull thud as the pot hits the floor, the huge cactus slips out of the pot. Earth spilling onto the floor, a mini landslide.
“But I never said that, I didn’t,” she says.
Her frightened voice. I look at her, sitting there on the floor with her legs drawn up underneath her. What the fuck is she talking about, what did she never say? I stare at her. I put my hand on the kitchen worktop, I’m not too steady on my feet, have to hold onto the kitchen worktop. The kitchen worktop? Are we in the kitchen?
“And I don’t know how you can accuse me of something like that anyway,” she says.
Her distraught voice. But what have I accused her of? I must have accused her of something. I look at her, give it a second. Don’t say anything. Just let her talk now. Let her go on talking for a bit and maybe I’ll figure out what we’re talking about. I prop myself up against the kitchen worktop. We’re in the kitchen and I’m propped up against the kitchen worktop. And the fluorescent tube over the sink is about to go out again, that buzzing sound, it’s making this kind of low hum and it’s flickering. I pull one of the kitchen chairs over. I’m in the kitchen. My head’s spinning. I shut my eyes, open them again. And the fluorescent tube is on the blink.
“I saw it with my own eyes,” I say.
Mumble something about having seen something. I look at Mona. And Mona eyes me fearfully. Her mouth half open. Big tearful eyes, she shakes her head.
“What did you see?” she asks, staring at me, waiting for me to answer. But I don’t answer, don’t know what it was I saw. I gaze at the floor and shake my head. Run my hand through my hair. Heave a big sigh. Don’t say anything. I’m so fucking drunk. And tired. I shut my eyes and open them again. And the fluorescent tube is on the blink, fluorescent tube flickering, light flashing on and off. Shut my eyes, open my eyes, shut them again …
And my hands are under her armpits. Her body’s limp, but easy to lift. She’s so thin and light, hardly an ounce of fat on her. I haul her up onto her feet, draw her close. Stand there holding her. Unsteady on my feet. Sway slightly, bump into the fridge, sound of a fridge magnet hitting the floor right after. I’m so fucking dizzy, unsteady.
“Sorry,” I say. Shake her, gently. And she cries and cries. Tears on my shoulder, my shoulder’s getting wet. And blood on my upper arm and my vest. “C’mon, let’s go to bed,” I say.
… open my eyes and gaze up at the lamp on the bedroom ceiling. Flies buzzing round the lamp. Buzz, buzz, buzz. Then I hear the clatter of the postbox lid. Is it that late? Must be the middle of the day if the post is here. I lie for a moment. And suddenly the whole of the night before flashes into my mind. It’s like seeing the whole thing in a huge painting. Me hitting her. Pulling her up by her hair. Roaring in her face. See the whole thing at once. I lie for a moment, then I flip over onto my side. And there’s Mona. She’s awake. Lying very still and crying. There’s this cold sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach the moment I lay eyes on her. Her purple cheek. The swollen lip and the dried blood, almost black blood. I don’t take my eyes off her. Swallow. And the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach grows stronger and stronger. My fist. Right in her face. I see it so clearly and my stomach churns. Nausea stirring. Lying there like a cold worm in my belly, writhing.
Silence.
“I’m so sorry.”
My voice low. Regret and confusion in my voice, sincere regret. I regret it with every bit of me, an aching, tearing feeling of regret. I look at her and wait. Swallow. Open my mouth again. I’m about to tell her I love her, but I stop myself. I love her so much, but it would sound like a lie to say that only hours after I’ve hit her. I hit her again, knocked her flat on her back and pulled her up by her hair, then roared in her face. How rotten can you be? How low can you get? I sicken myself. What sort of a fucking man beats his girlfriend to a bloody pulp. How can he even call himself a man. It’s so bloody cowardly. I hate myself for it.
But that’s it, it’s over. Even if she forgives me, it’s over. It has to be. It’s time I took responsibility. If she doesn’t end it, I’ll have to do it. It’s the only right thing to do. Because if we stay together I’m not sure I can stop myself from hitting her again. I didn’t think I’d ever hit her again, but I did, and it’ll happen again. I can’t go on kidding myself. Once I’ve had a drink I can’t control myself. Or when I start on the hard stuff anyway. There’s this beast that comes out in me when I hit the hard stuff. I can’t stop it. Booze is bad news for me and if I really love her I have to end it. She deserves somebody better than me.
I shut my eyes. I lie there, checking to see whether I really mean this. Am I going to leave her, or is this just something I’m saying to make me feel a bit better about myself after what I’ve done. If I were able to take responsibility and leave her that would be a redeeming feature, and maybe it’s just something I’m crediting myself with just to be able to live with myself at all. I don’t know. I open my eyes again. Look up at the lamp on the ceiling, flies buzzing around the lamp, knocking against the plastic again and again. I put a hand up to my brow as I turn my face to Mona. Look at her. Her thin, pencilled eyebrows, eyebrows she has spent time getting just right. And then the mark I’ve made just under her eye, the swollen, purplish-blue cheek and the cracked lips. Dear Mona. She loves me, she’s always so sweet and loving and yet I go and do this to her. Hit her. I lie for a moment then I take a deep breath. Kind of gathering myself. Summoning up strength. Because this really isn’t on. I have to take responsibility and leave her. It’s the only right thing to do and I have to be strong enough to do it. Not just talk about it, actually do it. I look at her. I’m about to say that she deserves somebody better than me, and that it’d be better if I moved out, but I don’t. I can’t say that. Because that’s what I’ve always said after incidents like this, and it’s never been anything but rotten self-pity. Something I’ve said to get her to feel sorry for me and forgive me. She always feels sorry for me when I start to blame myself. Always starts listing all my good points. But I’m not going to do that this time. I have to be strong, have to be better than that. Have to spare her my self-pity and all my excuses. Spare her my promises. My begging and pleading and my tears. I’ve just got to go. I’ve got to take responsibility and leave her now.
“If you leave the door unlocked, I can pick up my things tomorrow while you’re at work,” I say.
I hear what I’m saying. I feel the fear inside me as I say it. Feel the regret hit me. Because I need her. Can’t do without her. I don’t know what’ll happen to me if I lose her. I’m going to be in deep shit. That’s for sure. I’ll go right off the rails. I lie for a second and there’s silence in the room. I look at her. And she’s just lying there crying. Tears rolling down her nose. She doesn’t say anything. And the fear grows inside me. I find myself wishing she’d try to persuade me to stay. I should take responsibility and leave her now. I should get up and go without another word. I know I should. But I don’t, I can’t. I need her, so now she’s got to talk me into staying, now she’s got to tell me she loves me. But she doesn’t. She just lies there crying. She also thinks it would better if I moved out and she’s doing nothing to stop me. Well, I can’t blame her. It’s a wonder she’s put up with me as long as she has. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. I love her and it hurts so much to lose her. A second, and then I feel the tears come. Feel them welling up in my throat. I swallow. Clear my throat. Because I’m not going to cry. No fucking way. I’m not going to give her any reason to feel sorry for me, not this time. I’ve got to be above that. It’s her one should feel sorry for, not me. I’ve always known it, but this time I’ve got to do what has to be done. I’ve got to get up and go now. I push back the duvet and swing my legs out of bed. Stand up. And my head spins. I must still be a bit drunk. I stagger as I walk over to the wardrobe. Open the wardrobe door. I’ll just get some clothes, have a shower and then I’m out of here. Don’t know where I’ll go, but I have to go. It’s the only right thing to do, and for once I’m going to do the right thing. It feels kind of good. It hurts to go, I love Mona and I don’t want to leave her, but it feels kind of good to do the right thing. To know that I can, that I’m strong enough. I sling my clothes over my arm and walk out. No turning back now, just walk out of the bedroom and into the shower.
“Tom Roger, wait.”
Her tearful voice. Frightened voice. She’s asking me to wait. Maybe she wants to stop me from leaving after all. I don’t know, but it almost sounds like it. That frightened voice. She’s frightened that I’m going to leave. I can hear it in her voice and it’s so good to hear it. It reassures me a little. Now I know I have the chance to change my mind. I don’t need to leave her if I don’t want to and that helps a lot, it’s comforting.
“Tom Roger,” she cries.
Don’t stop now though. Keep walking. Have to prove to her that it’s not just talk this time. I understand the seriousness of the situation and I want her to know that. If I stay it’ll only be because she wants me to stay and I want her to know that. So I don’t stop. Or look back. Just carry on into the bathroom and shut the door. I’m about to lock it, but I don’t. Want to give her the chance to come in if she wants. Slip off my boxer shorts and step into the shower. Nudge some Bratz and Barbie dolls out of the way with my foot – Vilde’s been playing in the shower again. I turn on the shower, shut my eyes and turn my face up, feel the spray hitting my face. I could do with a beer soon, I can tell, I’m thirsty, my throat’s dry and there’s this tension inside me, a jangling that’s soon going to turn into the shakes. Need some hair of the dog, need a beer. I pick up the shampoo bottle, squirt some yellow shampoo onto the palm of my hand, soap up my hair. Rinse it off. Open my eyes every now and again and glance at the door handle. Waiting for it to turn, but it doesn’t turn. I feel a flicker of unease. Maybe she’s going to let me leave after all. Maybe she’s changed her mind. I finish showering. Turn off the water, grab the big bath towel that’s hanging over the side of the cabinet and step out of the shower. Keep shooting glances at the door handle. But it doesn’t turn. She’s not coming. And the unease grows inside me. I give myself a brisk rub-down. Start to get dressed.
Then suddenly the door opens and there’s Mona. She looks at me with glistening eyes, swallows.
“Tom Roger, don’t go,” she says.
And my heart lifts again. What a blessing, that she won’t let me go, it feels so good, such a comfort. But I don’t let it show. I can’t let it show. Have to prove to her that I’m determined to go. Prove how much I love her. Love her so much that I’m even willing to leave her for her sake.
“Tom Roger,” she says.
“It’s no use, Mona,” I say, pulling my T-shirt over my head. “You’re such a good person, you deserve something better than a life with me,” I say, saying exactly what I shouldn’t say. Blaming myself so that she’ll feel sorry for me and start to play down what I did. I don’t mean to do it, but I’m doing it. It just happens.
“I love you so much, Tom Roger,” she says. “I don’t want anybody but you.” Her voice is thick with tears.
“I love you too, Mona,” I say. “But I don’t deserve you.” Still saying what I shouldn’t be saying. I can’t help it. It feels so good. That’s she’s trying to stop me from leaving, begging me to stay, it’s feels so good and I’ve primed her to do it. “You’re too good for me,” I say, and now she’s supposed to start talking about all my good points. I shouldn’t do it, but I do.
“Oh, but you do deserve me,” she says. “You deserve a lot more than you think,” she says, saying exactly what I’ve primed her to say. “And … I think that’s your problem,” she says, coming up to me, putting her arms round me, the warmth inside me as she does this, this wonderful feeling that spreads through me, warmth radiating from her fingers. “You have such a low opinion of yourself,” she says, “that’s your problem, you … always have to act so tough and sure of yourself … and in a lot ways you are … but sometimes I get the idea that you’re not as sure of yourself as you make out. Because if you were you wouldn’t always be on your guard the way you are … and you wouldn’t get so mad the second you feel offended,” she says. “I’ve often thought that … well, my friends just shake their heads, they say I’m naive and stupid to think like this, but I really believe that if you can see how much I love you that might help you to feel a bit better about yourself. And I believe that might help you feel sure enough of yourself not to have to beat up me or anybody else just to defend your honour … or whatever it is you’re trying to defend,” she says, then she pauses. “I …,” she says, then her voice falters. She bursts into tears again. Leans her forehead against my chest and cries so hard her whole body shakes. And I just stand here. Rigid, my arms hanging by my sides. “I love you so much, Tom Roger,” she wails, sobbing and rubbing her forehead against my chest. I hear the rasp of hair. Her fringe scraping against my T-shirt. “You’re so much better than you think,” she goes on. “My friends get quite mad at me when I say it, but there’s so much good in you, you’re kind and considerate … and you’re fun to be with. I’ve never laughed so much as I have since I’ve been with you,” she says.
She’s saying exactly what I knew she would say. Talking about all of my good points. And she presses herself against me. Holds me tight. It’s going the way it always goes. She’s forgiving me. Comforting me. No matter how big a bastard I’ve been she won’t give up on me. And I just stand here, accepting all her love. It feels so good. Almost like being healed. Like being renewed. I lift my hands, place them on her back. Hug her to me, her slight figure pressed against my burly body. Feel her warmth. It feels so good. It’s almost like being renewed. The only problem is that I’m not renewed. It may feel like I’m being renewed, but I’m still exactly the same. Here I am doing exactly the same as I did after the last time I beat her up, acting like the repentant sinner, and here she is forgiving me, full of love. This is exactly how it always goes. Nothing changes. There’s this pattern we’re caught up in. A pattern that we’re stuck in and can’t break free of. That’s the problem. We may kid ourselves into believing that this time things will be better, but they won’t be any better. I shut my eyes. Swallow. And suddenly I feel all the happiness drain out of me.
“I need to take a shower as well,” Mona says. “I stink of booze.”
Telling me she stinks of booze. Saying nothing about all the blood. Wants us to put what happened behind us so she doesn’t say anything about the dried, black blood that she’ll have to wash off. This is exactly how it always goes. It’s this pattern we’re caught up in. I take my hands off her back. The happiness is gone. And suddenly I feel sad, angry almost.
“Why don’t you rustle up some breakfast while I have a shower?” Mona says. She’s never asked me to cook for her before, but she says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s a way of trying to make me feel better. She’s making me out to be more kind and helpful than I actually am and that’s supposed to make me feel more kind and helpful. She’s doing exactly what she always does in situations like this. Trying to boost my ego. Trying to fool me into thinking that I’m better than I am. But I don’t want to play this game any more. Can’t be bothered fooling myself any longer. I know who I am and I’m sick of myself. And I’m sick of our gutter romance. That’s how we like to see ourselves. Like one of those white trash couples you see in films sometimes. The kind who’ve taken their share of hard knocks, but who hang on in there as best they can. The kind who may hurt each other and be mean to one another sometimes, but who still love each other more than any other couple could. That sort of crap. I can’t do that any more.
“What’s the matter, Tom Roger?” she asks, tucking her fine, fair hair behind her ear and looking at me.
“Nothing’s the matter,” I say.
I try to smile, but I can’t quite pull it off.
“Is your stomach hurting again?” she asks.
She eyes me tenderly. Wanting me to say yes. Wanting me to play that same old game of ours. Wanting me to pretend that my stomach hurts so we can focus on my aching stomach instead of what happened last night. This, too, a way of moving on.
“Nah,” I say, shaking my head.
But she won’t let it go. Playing that same old game.
“Oh, you,” she sighs, shaking her head. “Both your legs could be cut off and you still wouldn’t admit you were in pain,” she says.
She’s making me out to be a real tough nut and acting like she despairs of me. She knows I like that. I like being told that I’m a real man. Always have done. But not right now. I can’t fool myself any longer. I just can’t be bothered. I’m about to pick my toothbrush out of the glass, but I don’t, I need to get out of the bathroom now, can’t bear to stay here playing this game, so I’ll just have to brush my teeth later.
“But I know you, Tom Roger,” she goes on. “I can tell when you’re in pain, and I’m telling you, you’ve got to make an appointment with the doctor as soon as possible,” she says. “I’m worried about you.”
“Yeah, okay,” I say, can’t be bothered saying anything else, can’t be bothered explaining and laying it all out for her, just want to get out of here now, out of this pattern, out of this flat.
“Promise me now,” Mona says, actually making herself sound a little cross now.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, shutting my eyes, nodding and opening them again. Then I put a hand to the bathroom door and push it open, see the steam swirling up in the draught.
“Will you see to breakfast then?” she asks as she steps into the shower.
“Yep,” I say.
I hear the shower cabinet door sliding shut as I walk out of the bathroom. Catch the sound of her turning on the shower before I close the door. She’s going to wash off the blood now. I beat her to a bloody pulp and now she’s going to wash it all away. In a little while she’s going to come out of there washed clean and that will be that. And we’ll be so nice and attentive to one another for a while. I’ll get round to doing jobs I should have seen to ages ago. Fix the tap in the bathroom or clear up all the junk we’ve got lying in the storage area downstairs. That sort of thing. I’ll throw myself into these jobs and pretend it’s just a coincidence that I’m doing them today of all days. I know that’s what I’ll end up doing. And Mona will be happy. Not happy enough to remind us of why I’m getting round to these jobs today of all days, but happy all the same. She’ll praise me, tell me what a great job I’m doing. Be amazed that I can do the things I do. And then she’ll do something she knows I’ll like. Buy something nice for dinner. Maybe rent a good film. And we’ll watch the film and then we’ll have sex. And not just ordinary sex. Serious fucking. Real hard fucking. She’ll moan even louder than usual. Maybe cry out while we’re at it. And afterwards she’ll tell me how good I am in bed. You’re the best I’ve ever had, she’ll say. I know that’s what’ll happen. That’s what always happens. But we can’t go on like this. We have to stop fooling ourselves. Have to get out of this. For once I’m going to fucking well take responsibility. I’m sick of being the way I am. I hate it. But now it’s got to stop. Now I’ve got to get out of here. Got to go. Don’t know where. I’ll have to see. In any case I’ve got to go. And I can’t face talking to her before I leave. Because it’ll just go the way it always goes when I try to talk to her and explain. We’ll just fall back into the same old pattern. I’ve got to get out of here before she comes out of the shower.
I go through to the kitchen. The fluorescent tube above the sink is on the blink, I notice. It’s flickering and making this loud buzzing sound. I put out a hand and switch it off, open the fridge and take out a beer. Open the can with a little pop, tip my head back and drink. Knock it back. Cold beer running down my throat. I feel the beer washing away the tension in my body, feel everything in me gradually relaxing. Christ, I needed that beer.
All of a sudden there’s a knock at the door. One knock, then another. Who the fuck can it be at this time? Shit. I’m not up to talking to anybody right now. I set the can of beer down on the kitchen table. Very gently. And just stand there. Stand perfectly still. Just have to wait till they go away. Don’t want to see anybody right now, I’m not up to it. One second, two. And I just stand here. Perfectly still. Then suddenly the front door opens. I hear the little click. Must have forgotten to lock it when we got home last night and now somebody’s opening it and walking straight in.
“Hello,” a voice calls. Aw, shit. It’s Anne. And my heart starts to thud. Her – of all people it had to be that cunt. I wait a second. Don’t answer. She’ll probably go away if there’s no answer, so I don’t say a word. I just tiptoe over to the tall kitchen cabinet and tuck myself in behind it. Hide behind the cabinet.
“Hello? Anybody home?” she calls.
But I don’t answer.
Silence.
“She’s not out is she?” she asks.
At first I don’t know what she’s talking about, but then I realize it’s Mona’s rat, she hates that bloody rat as much as I do and she wants to make sure she’s in her cage.
Silence again. And then I hear Mona say: “Oh, that was good.” And I feel myself go cold. Because she’s coming. She’s had her shower and now she’s coming out of the bathroom. And I have to get out of here. There’s going to be trouble and I can’t face it. Not right now. I can’t face going head to head with Anne right now, so I’ve got to go. I’ll have to walk straight past the two of them and out the door. Cut and run before anything’s said. Have to get out of the house before Anne realizes what’s happened. But I don’t. I just stand here clutching the cold beer can, staring down at the froth that’s gathered in the shining groove on the top of the can. I can’t move a muscle. Just stand here listening.
“I didn’t think you were home …” Anne says.
And then she breaks off. Stops in the middle of the word. She must just have seen Mona’s face, that’s why she’s stopped so abruptly. And my heart’s thudding. Because now there’s going to be trouble. There’s going to one hell of a row.
Total silence.
“Walked into a door again, did you?” Anne says. She sounds calmer than I thought she’d be. Her voice is sharp, but she’s not freaking out. One second. And Mona doesn’t say anything. And I don’t say anything. I stand perfectly still, staring at the beer can. Stand here like a big sissy. Don’t show myself. Can’t bring myself to. Stay tucked in behind the cabinet, listening. “Or maybe you fell down the stairs?” Anne says.
“Cut it out,” Mona says.
“No,” Anne says, raising her voice.” “No,” she says again, raising it even more, almost shouting now. “I’ve had enough of this, dammit,” she says.
“You’ve had enough?” Mona says, speaking almost as loudly as Anne now. I’ve never heard her raise her voice to her mother before, but she’s doing it now. “Believe it or not, Mum, but not everything in this world is up to you,” she says. “Would you please leave me alone. Would you please stop poking your nose in. You live your life and let me live mine.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Mona, don’t be stupid, you …”
“I’m not stupid,” Mona yells.
She’s fucking yelling at her mother now. What the fuck’s going on. I’ve never heard her yell like this before.
“Don’t you call me stupid,” she yells. “I’m not stupid.”
“I never said you were stupid, I’m just say …”
“But you always manage to make me feel stupid,” Mona breaks in, livid. “You’ve always made me feel stupid. The very fact that you can come barging in to our flat and … and … take charge like this … it makes me feel stupid. As if I’m incapable of making my own decisions. As if you’re a better judge of what’s best for me than I am. It’s … it’s … oh, my God, you’ve no idea how things are between Tom Roger and me.”
“I know he hits you,” Anne retorts. “And that’s more than enough for me.”
“It’s not that simple. Yes, we have our problems, but we … we love one another,” Mona says.
Coming out with all that gutter romance stuff now. Presenting this picture of us that we always try to present after I’ve done something to her. Trying to turn us into the sort of couple we’ve seen so many times in films. A couple who hurt each other really badly sometimes, but still love each more than any other couple ever could. “I don’t want anybody but Tom Roger,” she goes on. “I love him and no matter how hard you try you’ll never manage to split us up, Mum,” she says, glorifying our gutter romance, still making us out to be like one of those couples we see in films. “And anyway, I think you should be careful what you say about how Tom Roger treats me,” she says. “What about all the fancy women Dad’s had over the years? How humiliating that must have been for you, eh … you think I don’t remember all the fights you had when I was at home? You weeping and wailing and threatening to kill yourself and him always apologizing afterwards, always promising that it would never happen again … and then the kissing and making up … when the three of us had to pretend to be all sunshine and light again and make everyone, including ourselves, believe we were the perfect little family. All that – was it so much better?” she asks.
“Oh, for heaven’s, Mona,” Anne says. “There’s no comparison. Look … listen to me. You’re my daughter. I gave birth to you, I brought you up, and I can’t bear to see you being treated like this … no matter what went on between your dad and me. And besides, you’ve got a little girl of your own. This isn’t just about you and me. It’s about Vilde as well. Surely you can see that. Has it ever occurred to you that you’re Vilde’s role model? Has it occurred to you that everything you accept from Tom Roger, everything he says and does to you, Vilde’s liable to accept from the future men in her life?”
“Don’t you go bringing Vilde into this,” Mona cries.
“But it’s not me that’s bringing her into it,” Anne says. “It’s you that’s doing that. I mean, you’re the one who’s living with a violent man.”
“Vilde has never, ever witnessed any violence, Mum. And, however much it may annoy you, she and Tom Roger are the best of friends. I know you’d like to believe otherwise, but Tom Roger is actually great with kids. Just as great with them as Olav is. He would never say or do anything to me or anybody else when Vilde was around.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Mona, how long do you think you can go on fooling that girl into believing that you walked into a door every time you have a black eye? Hmm? Don’t you realize it’s just a matter of time before Vilde figures out what’s going on? And don’t you realize the effect it could have on her in the long run? She’s going to grow up believing that that’s how men are. That it’s perfectly normal for men to hit their women, and that that’s just something we women have to accept. Don’t you realize that?”
Silence for a second or two.
Then: “Do you know what I think, Mum,” Mona says, and her voice has suddenly changed. She doesn’t sound all that angry now, instead there’s a kind of grim satisfaction in her voice. “I don’t think this is about Vilde or me,” she says. “The fact that you hate Tom Roger and the way you’re always poking your nose into our affairs, I think that’s actually all about you. All the things you’ve always dreamed of, I think you’re trying to achieve through us … all the things you wish you’d done when you were feeling most put upon, you’re trying to make those wishes come true through me.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, this is absolutely … I mean … Mona. Don’t you see that you’re trying to play down what Tom Roger does to you, you’re trying to convince me and yourself that what you have to put up with is actually perfectly normal, don’t you see that? You’re trying to convince us both that there’s no difference between what goes on between you and Tom Roger and what goes on between other couples. But there is a difference, Mona. There’s a huge difference.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes really … excuse me, he beats you. He tries to control you by means of physical violence.”
“Well, for one thing I don’t think you’ve any room to talk about controlling people, Mum. I’ve never seen you use physical violence, but I have seen you use loads of other methods. And for another I actually happen to think it’s less humiliating to be given the odd clip round the ear than to have Tom Roger screwing around the way Dad used to do.
“The odd clip round the ear,” Anne snorts. “My God. Even the words you use make it sound so harmless, honestly … Mona, you … you’re breaking my heart, you … you keep dodging the issue, you do everything you can to avoid talking about you and Tom Roger. Every time I try to talk about you and him you change the subject and start talking about me or somebody else,” she says. “But if we could just concentrate on you and Tom Roger for a moment, please … Tom Roger controls you, you can’t see it yourself, but he does … and not just by means of physical violence either, he controls you in other ways too … through the guilt he makes you feel when he hits you, for example. I can’t tell you how insecure you’ve become, Mona. You seem to have lost all your self-confidence. You may not see it yourself, but everybody who knows you can see it. And they all know why. They all know he makes you feel ashamed and guilty,” she says.
I raise my chin and look at the ceiling. Bitch, what the fuck is she saying? She’s fucking well saying that I’m to blame for all the guilt Mona feels. Un-fucking-believable. I mean, obviously I feel bad about all the pain I’ve caused Mona, but for fuck’s sake, if there’s one person who’s done more than anybody else to make her feel guilty and ashamed it’s Anne.
But she still won’t let up. “You’ve absolutely no reason to feel guilty, Mona, of course you haven’t,” she says. “But like so many other women in your situation you think it’s you there’s something wrong with and not the man who batters you. If he beats you up it must be because he has a reason to beat you up, right? There must be something about you that’s not good enough, right? That’s how you think. That’s how all women in your situation think. You’re being eaten up by guilt and shame, Mona. You feel guilty because he hits you and you feel guilty for letting him hit you … you’ve got to get out of this. Now! This minute!” I just stand here listening to what she’s saying. This is un-fucking-believable. She’s trying to get herself off the hook. That’s what she’s doing. Trying to pin the blame on me for everything she’s done. A second, and then I feel a surge of anger. Rage. Because if there’s one thing I can’t be blamed for it’s making Mona feel guilty. Far from it. In fact I’ve done all I could to boost her self-confidence, I’ve done my best to rebuild everything that that bloody mother of hers has destroyed.
“Sounds like you know what you’re talking about,” Mona says with a faint sneer and that same note of grim satisfaction in her voice. “You’re never going to tell me that’s how you felt when Dad was screwing around? You’re never going to tell me that back then you thought it was you there was something wrong with and not him? That he screwed around because you couldn’t give him what he needed or something?”
“There, you see, that’s just what I’m saying,” Mona says with a scornful little laugh. “This is all about you, isn’t it. Not me, not Tom Roger, it’s about you and Dad.”
“No, Mona. No. I just don’t know what to do. I’m so worried about you. And I’m worried about Vilde and I … I don’t know what to say, but if your dad and I have had our problems too … and if there’s any similarity between the way things were for me and how they are for you now, then … anybody might think I could give you some advice, anybody might think you’d do well to listen to what I’m saying.”
“I am listening to what you’re saying.”
“Yes, but not properly,” Anne says. “He’s destroying you, Mona. He’s breaking you down. Just the way you talk to people now, that snide, smart-alecky tone you’ve adopted … this need you seem to have to drag people down into the dirt just so that you can feel better about yourself, all of this … it … it reeks of self-loathing. He’s done this to you … he’s made you more and more like himself. Do you realize that?”
Fucking cunt, she just won’t let up, she’s still blaming me for Mona’s low self-esteem. Blaming me for what she’s done. Well, that fucking does it. I’m not going to stand here and listen to this. I have to be man enough to take responsibility for my actions, but no fucking way am I going to take the blame for all the things that cunt has done to Mona. I take a big gulp of my beer, slam the can down on the table and walk up to the kitchen door. Stand in the doorway. Smiling. I’m raging inside, but I’m smiling. I look straight at Anne. See her eyes widen when she sees me, wide eyes in that pasty, powder-caked mug, see how surprised she is. But then she collects herself. Twists her face into a sneer.
“What the hell? Have you been hiding in there?”
“Yeah,” I say, staring straight at her, giving her a cold, hard smile. “I’m so ashamed of what I’ve done that I didn’t dare to show my face right away,” I say. Say it straight out, still smiling.
“Yes, well, you’ve every right to be ashamed,” Anne says. “Christ, what a gutless little sod you are,” she snarls, raising one pale pig’s trotter of an arm and pointing at me. I see the gold bracelet slip down to her wrist as she does it. “You are …”
“Stop it,” Mona cries, breaking in.
“No,” Anne shouts, spinning round and stamping her foot. There’s a little thud as the sole of her shoe hits the floor, a muffled thud. She glares at Mona. “You’re far too good for this loser, Mona,” she shouts. “He doesn’t deserve you and I don’t mind telling him so.”
She turns to me again, stares at me.
“I couldn’t agree more,” I say, still smiling. It pisses her off that I’m smiling. Because it makes me look like I mean exactly the opposite of what I’m saying. But I don’t. I really do mean what I’m saying. But I’m smiling anyway, I can’t help it. It’s this anger inside me.
“Well, then do the right thing, damn you,” Anne shouts, glaring at me. “Get out of my daughter’s life.”
“Mum,” Mona cries, leaning towards her. I see her long, fine hair slide off her shoulder and fall forward, curtaining her furious face. “Would you fucking shut up, would you just leave us alone. It’s not Tom Roger who needs to get out of my life. It’s you,” she yells. “It’s you!”
“Mona,” Anne says, her voice shaking, faltering for a moment. “If I could just get a word in here. You don’t know what’s best for you, so if I could just …”
“Would you stop saying that,” Mona suddenly screams, thrusting her head forward as she screams. Her red face, her arms thrown back, rigid, a bit like a longjumper preparing for takeoff. “It’s not true,” she screams. Her eyes wide, the big vein in her throat, blue veins expanding when she screams. “I do know what’s best for me, I’m not stupid,” she screams, “I’m not stupid,” she screams, screaming as loud as she can, a cold, shrill voice, a voice that breaks on the last word.
And I look at her, smiling.
“Take it easy, Mona,” I say. “Anne’s right, and we both know it. You’re far too good for me.”
I walk up to her, quietly, put my hand on her shoulder, her bony shoulder. And then I turn to Anne. Look her straight in the eye and smile. And she looks at me. That thoughtful look in her eyes. She’s sizing me up. Trying to work out where she has me now. She’s confused, thrown by what I’ve just said. And by my smile. I can tell by her face that she’s confused, thrown. I get a bit of a kick out of that. I go on smiling at her, just for a second, then I look at Mona again.
“And don’t you start going on again about how I’m plagued by self-loathing,” I tell her. “And how I’ve such a low opinion of myself that I can’t believe you could actually love me, and that’s why I say I don’t deserve you. Because it’s not true,” I say. “It’s perfectly true that I don’t deserve you. You come from a respectable and unusually well-off family, and I come from a family of drunks, benefit scroungers and petty criminals, so I never could deserve you either.”
Then I pause for a moment. Still smiling. I look at Anne, two thoughtful eyes in a pasty, powder-caked mug. Look at Mona, she seems confused too now, thrown, two little bird eyes, fixed. She probably wasn’t expecting this, she was probably expecting me to back her up, to tell Anne to butt out of our lives. I’m kind of surprised myself. I wasn’t expecting to say all this either.
Silence. Broken only by the sound of the rat in its cage, a soft scrabbling.
“And you know something, Anne?” I go on, turning to her again. “That’s exactly why Mona wants to be with me. Mona’s not living with me because she loves me. She may think that’s why, but it’s not. She’s living with me because that’s the best way of rebelling against you,” I say. I hear what I’m saying, feel more and more surprised to find myself saying this, I’ve never even seen it this way before. “Mona can’t stand all your expectations of her and all the demands you make on her,” I say. “I don’t know how many times I’ve seen her crying her eyes out and complaining about how hard it is for her because you’re never satisfied with her, with who she is or what she does. In your world, yours and her dad’s, a person can never be clever enough or perfect enough. There are always new goals to set for yourself, always something else to aim for. You never get to a stage where you can relax and feel satisfied with yourself. And that’s what Mona’s trying to rebel against. She can’t handle it and she doesn’t want to be part of that rat race. She says so herself and I’m sure it’s true, I mean it’s surely no accident that she’s had problems with bulimia,” I say, mentioning her bulimia now, there’s nothing Mona dreads more than the thought of people knowing that she’s suffered from bulimia, but I say it anyway, look at Anne and smile. “There’s no way Mona can ever live up to your ridiculous expectations of her, and to save herself from being swallowed up by feelings of inferiority and self-loathing she’s trying to show that she doesn’t give a toss for your expectations or your demands. She’s trying to show that she wants nothing to do with your ambitions and your social climbing,” I say. “And what better way to do that than by shacking up with a man fourteen years older than herself who has done absolutely nothing with his life. And has no ambition to do anything with it either,” I add with a little laugh. “Nothing could get up your nose more than to see Mona take up with somebody like me,” I say. “A drunken waster, on the dole, with rotten manners and a police record,” I say. “But I’ve had it. Mona can rebel against you all she likes, but I refuse to be part of it any more.”
I hear what I’m saying. I don’t know where all this is coming from, I can’t remember ever thinking anything like this before, but it’s true what I’m saying, it’s absolutely true. I turn to Mona, gaze at her. Her thin pencilled eyebrows are arched slightly and she gazes back at me, shaking her head. She looks almost frightened.
“I feel used, Mona. Do you realize that?” I say, still smiling. I stare at her, she’s looking more and more frightened, she opens her mouth and goes on shaking her head, stares at me with wide, frightened eyes, frightened bewildered eyes. “I feel used,” I say again. “You’re fourteen years younger than me and when you’re as old as me you’ll find it impossible to believe that you could ever have wanted to get mixed up with someone like me,” I say. “When you finally manage to cut loose, more or less, from your mother’s apronstrings and start to feel a little more sure of yourself, you’ll do exactly what she says you should do. And not only that. You’ll actually want to do it. You’ll be glad to move away from Namsos, you’ll go to college, meet some guy of your own age who’s also gone to college and before you know it you’ll be living in a house with paintings on the walls and a library with those huge Chesterfield sofas in it, just like the ones your mum and dad have,” I say, talking a bit faster now, faster and louder. I stare at Mona. Something’s breaking loose inside me, this great, heavy surge of rage, breaking loose. “You don’t love me, Mona,” I say. “You’re just using me as a steppingstone to get where you’re going. Maybe that’s why I hit you, what the fuck do I know. I’m not trying to excuse or belittle what I’ve done to you, and I am ashamed of myself, I truly am, but … to be used by a spoiled brat who was born with a silver spoon in her mouth and wrapped in cotton wool and God knows what all, it’s … it’s so fucking degrading … and it makes me … so mad,” I roar.
I let out this roar. A wild roar, a roar that comes from somewhere deep in my stomach. And Mona and Anne both flinch, take a step back. And this great heavy weight, this surge of rage, it sweeps through me like a landslide. And I stare at Mona. Feel my eyes widening. Feel like my eyes are about to pop out of their sockets. “The way you drag me into this play-acting of yours,” I shout, my voice deeper than normal, rougher. “Because that’s what it is,” I say. “The fact that you choose to live with me and the way you’re always trying to talk and act like you’re in Wild at Heart or True Romance or one of those other films that we’ve always thought were so great. It’s really all just an act that you put on for yourself and your parents,” I say. “Well, not for me it isn’t. You may be playing at being white trash, but I’m not. For me this is no act. It’s real. I can’t just go back to my nice posh life when I get fed up with the way I’m living now,” I say. I stare at her. At her big, wide eyes. Frightened, sad, bewildered eyes.
“No,” she says, says it without making a sound. Shuts her mouth and opens it again. “No,” she says again, shaking her head as if she can’t believe what she’s hearing, doesn’t want to believe it. “I love you, Tom Roger,” she says, her voice thick with tears, broken-hearted.
I look at her, shake my head, and then I start to walk away.
“Tom Roger, don’t go, please.”
But I keep walking.
“Let him go, Mona,” Anne says.
“Tom Roger,” Mona says, crying my name.
But I grasp the doorhandle and open the door, walk out. Don’t know where I’m going. Just know that I have to get away from here. I hear Mona roar as I step out into the backyard, her voice furious, she’s so furious with her mother, screaming that she’s going to kill her. “Get out of my life or I’ll kill you,” she screams. And I walk away.