I was given my first mobile phone for my fifteenth birthday. My grandparents, who I knew had very little, had saved up and bought me a Nokia. They might as well have given me a million pounds.
I felt spoiled. And so grown up as I plugged it in for the first time and charged it before spending half an hour tapping in the details of the few friends I had from school, as well as my grandparents’ landline number.
It rarely rang, of course, because calls cost so much money we were almost afraid to use the phones. Text messages were a little less expensive, so I exchanged those with my friends. Silly little things about homework, or who we had a crush on, or to arrange to meet at the bus depot on Foyle Street before wandering around the shops.
This phone, basic as it was compared to the phones that exist now, was a lifeline. It meant that when I went home I was no longer confined to long nights with just Joe for company. I would escape to my room, close the door and engage with my friends. I’d asked Joe if we could get a computer, maybe even get the Internet at home. He’d refused. Said I could go to the library and use theirs. But the thought of spending more time under his eye was more than I could take.
At least, at that stage, his night-time visits had stopped. Not that it meant he treated me any better. In fact, there were times when he just seemed even angrier at me. Fed up with me. I suppose I didn’t serve him any purpose any more. I was just a drain on his resources at that time.
God, it was so messed up. Because, of course, I was glad the abuse wasn’t happening any more. But I was fifteen years old and craved the affection of a father figure. I tried to make him like me. I cringe now when I think of it. Weep for the poor child I was.
I never told my friends. I would die if they knew. When they talked about their first boyfriends, their clumsy first experiences of kissing and more, I stayed quiet. I had no interest in finding a boyfriend. I had no interest in kissing anyone, never mind having sex. It baffled me that some of them seemed to enjoy it so much.
I was midway through a text chat with one of my friends about how she had let her boyfriend touch her boobs, under her clothes, when a new message buzzed its way into my inbox.
For a moment I allowed this small feeling of smugness to wash over me. I was, sort of, popular. My phone was buzzing. With a sense of great anticipation I opened the new message to see it was from a number I didn’t recognise.
You’re nothing but a mad little bitch. Everyone hates you.
I recoiled from the phone as if it had actually burned me, tossing it to the end of my bed. Then I scrabbled to reach it again, to look at the number, which I wrote down on a piece of paper. I figured I’d ask around at school to see if anyone knew who the number belonged to, but then I realised they’d all ask questions. They’d all want to know why I needed to know and I’d be too embarrassed, too scared that they would tell me the message was the truth, to show it to them.
I read it over and over again. My heart thumping. Was that why bad things happened to me? Because I was mad? Because I deserved to be punished? I covered my ears to try to drown out the voices in my head, which was about as successful as you would expect, and I curled myself into a ball on my bed and wondered if Ciara had been right all along. I should just kill myself and be done with it.