Melly swapped one tyrant for another, her father for her husband; it’s hard to know who caused the most damage, especially as she was hell-bent on damaging herself. When you are anorexic, it actually does something to your vision; you can’t properly assess what you see. I heard that on the radio yesterday and I wanted to tell her, but I’m not sure if that would help; not now.

I was damaged by greed: my own. My grandfather told me that anything was possible; it wasn’t his fault that I believed him. I thought I could manage it all—work, marriage, kids, writing, being scared. That was wrong, or worse, half right. He forgot to add that anything is possible, but not on your own. He might have thought that was completely obvious; I grew up in an African village, after all. I should have asked for help when I needed it. He told me to walk slowly and he was right. I might have noticed what was there in front of me. You can’t blame Melly for not seeing things properly, when I wasn’t watching either.

10. November

Melissa

Melissa wakes in the early morning, it’s still dark. She doesn’t move, moving seems impossible. Her face throbs with pain. Paul is snoring on his side, a meaty hand clenched even in sleep. What happened last night seeps back. She’d crawled upstairs, swallowing acetaminophen and ibuprofen from the packets in the bathroom cabinet. Then Ambien, which worked, though the blows, starting later, shocked her from sleep, hard punches landing on her face and body. She’d tried to shield herself but that only made it worse. Eventually he stopped. She can’t remember anything else.

She gets up slowly, gasping with pain, still in yesterday’s clothes, though her pants and jeans are around her ankles. She pulls them up and stumbles into the bathroom; walking hurts, her hip joints are stiff. The damage is much worse than usual; a bruise lies along her left jaw like mauve paint, clumsily applied. Her cheeks are swollen. There is a split in her skin like a tear that runs from the edge of her left eye to her mouth. It is possible to open her mouth. She unzips her top; a deep red splash of blood under the skin extends across her chest. She rotates her shoulder, also possible. She slips her hand down between her legs; blood on her fingers, her vulva is tender. No wonder it hurts to walk.

He’ll avoid her for a while, though he won’t apologize. He used to give her jewelry after episodes like this but he doesn’t do that anymore. She turns away from the mirror and limps to the stairs. She needs tea, hot, sweet tea, and then she might sleep again.

The kitchen is shadowy in the early light; the luminous clockface reads six thirty. An empty vodka bottle lies on its side by the sink. She walks slowly to the kettle, trying not to jar her face; she switches it on, reaches for a cup, then stops. She can hear the soft sounds of breathing coming from the open door of the pantry. Lina’s boyfriend back again? A different intruder? She feels very calm; there is little anyone can do to make things worse. She doesn’t care. Paul has pushed her somewhere beyond caring: beyond anger, beyond sadness, and so far from happiness that nothing matters at all; though she is grateful, as she slides a knife from the rack, that Izzy isn’t in the house. Her daughter is safe. Whatever happens to her own body now seems irrelevant. She walks to the pantry, clutching the knife, and opens the door.