The Turning Point - a short story written by Berni Albrighton

 

I hear the key turning in the lock.

He shouldn’t be here, he’s at work.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

“It could be a late one and you’re working tomorrow. Are you going to be okay?”

“Yep”

The sound of Siouxsie and the Banshees blared in the background.

I watched as he took a swig from the wine glass. He turned and caught my eye.

I couldn't read what was going on, but there was definitely something.

“Is everything okay? Anything you want to talk about?”

“No, I don’t want to fuckin’ talk about anything. Jesus Christ you’re like some fuckin’ psychiatrist” 

I walked into the bathroom, recognising the feeling of dread that crept 

up from my chest and into my throat.

I can’t refuse to go out, that would cause too much trouble.

I just have to hope that his mood changes and he lightens up.

We leave the flat and walk through the town and across the park to the Pump Rooms.

He doesn’t respond when I slip my hand in his.

As we approach I hear music and see flashing lights through the small windows.

Our friends are waiting outside for us.

After exchanging the usual hugs and compliments, we make our grand entrance.

The night is fun, it always is.

We’re all dressed up in our New Romantic finery, admiring the latest get up on the local drag queens and acknowledging our status as the ‘it’ crowd of this small town.

I have played safe and not ventured far from our regular group.

He’s been dancing and drinking most of the night, coming over occasionally as if to remind everyone that we are a couple.

I don't feel flattered by his possessiveness. 

We have all seen the ugly consequences of it.

It’s late when we leave.

I should have said no to the last glass of wine. 

“You always have to flirt with Joe don’t you? You can’t give it a rest. You’ve always been a slag. I should have listened to my Mother. She always said you were a common piece of dirt”

I wake up.

The curtains are open.

I can see it’s morning.

My head is thick, pounding.

He isn’t in the bed. 

Immediately I know something is very wrong.

I need to remember.

Apart from the one sheet, the rest of the bedding is on the floor.

I look down.

Blood, now dried,  is smeared across the bottom sheet and pillow.

Images of shouting and pushing flash through my mind.

Then I know.

I look at my naked body for injuries.

I tell myself this can never happen again because one day he will kill me.

I need to leave right now.  

I slowly get up from the bed and go straight to the shower.

Once dressed I begin packing things into a hold all. 

I stop.

I hear the key turning in the lock.

He shouldn't be here, he’s at work.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”