#37

On delayed fuses

I rise from mine pyre, body emboldened by fire, babe, and unfurl a curdled scream. The light is blinding.

Rie Inō as Sadako Yamamura in Ring (1998) dir. Hideo Nakata.

I’m sleepwalking, angel, as you may imagine - admitting to myself, reluctantly, that word which I’ve struggled to come to terms with. Blanketed by wintery sun, the hum of rattled cups and clinked cutlery resounding through the air, murmured speech here and there, I sit across from a friend of mine. He looks troubled, concerned. I grin for fear of tears and, panicked, I exclaim, “…Which I now know was abusive!” My rising voice inclines, wrapping my bitter lips around the foul taste of that godlessness.

No matter how much I pine, clamber with sweat-slicked palms to that figure in the distant dark - the one I once knew, loved and understood, angel - I can’t seem to decipher the two halves of that one, broken whole. How do those soured men exist all at once, in tandem? How do you compartmentalise the hollow and destructive bad from the rabid, manic good? Why dig the blade in deeper, reader?

Months go by as I sit to dinner and dissociate. Spirit lifted in one swift, sickened swirl, I hover above mine body, feeling the steam of the hotpot broth forcing my eyes to well, pearlescent.

“Why didn’t you just leave?”

“I didn’t know until it was over,” I plead.

The delayed, residual weight of it all, babe - the damaged plasterboard, the splintered windscreen, the glare, the stare and sneer - has left an open wound within me. Burnt, bulbous, tar-like. In truth and sadness, I’m finding now that this experience has, undoubtedly, impacted my ability to love and trust men, for fear of that same cycle beginning again. I look to a burgeoning love beyond and spew such sentiments, bile building in the pit: Are you normal? What’s the catch? Will you wake up one day and hate me?

I recall four lines from twenty-nineteen, never read aloud, engraved or painted, only felt and known. They feel, now, more pertinent than ever:

Pushing my head down / Pulling my jaw apart / Sporadic intensity / Reluctant apologies

Part 8 of Twin Peaks: The Return (2017) dir. David Lynch.

How is it that a man can wade through life leading a path of sheer destruction, decimating all in his wake, and walk away unscathed, reader? Yet here I weep to mine knees in the street, gathering those shards of broken glass?

So much of it I absorbed, angel. Took on as mine own doing, with will and vigour. I sit across from Brian de Palma’s Carrie (1976) who, staring into me deeply, says, “This was sophisticated, identity-stripping abuse.” I wonder whether allusions to these events serve any value, or whether I should simply tell you the truth in its ugly fullness. I think about How to Have Sex and I May Destroy You. I think about regulating my breathing. I think about Assailant, a work of mine since buried: Shedding without telling / slinking from his skin / the Devil and his dancers / writhe and wriggle in.

I see a woman stood alone by her bedroom window. She turns out the light, and disappears.

A rose, a diamond, a pearl in the flesh of the clouded sea bed, invited me into her life, and gifted me a book to borrow. It has charred my fingertips, peeling back tangy, blistered skin. Its cover, worn and well-read, depicts a figure down on bended knee. Turning to his lover, he demands, “Marry me - for better or worse.” “How much worse?”, she hovers.

The book, Living with the Dominator, authored by Pat Craven, a previous probation officer now dedicating her life to both perpetrators and survivors of violence through the Freedom Programme, explores the model of the abusive man or, as Craven calls it, ‘The Dominator’. Within its initial pages, Craven breaks down the statistics of intimate partner violence in Britain. My heart hurts to voice it.

In Britain, 112 women a year are killed by a male partner or former partner (Home Office, 2007).

Claude Rains in The Invisible Man (1933) dir. James Whale.

‘The Dominator’ is described as one man, who seamlessly morphs into others. He is broken down into various characters, other ghoulish figures who operate in such sophisticated ways. They are delineated as follows: The Sexual Controller, the King of the Castle, the Bad Father, the Liar, the Persuader, the Headworker, the Jailer, and, finally, the Bully.

I looked to this book for an answer, dear reader, and have felt so bruised by it, so thrown, that I have struggled to complete it. I shall leave you, angel, with the page which has burned me the most:

‘The Bully is excellent at using body language to intimidate. He uses every inch of his body to achieve this. Starting from the head down, he will glare or stare. He can make himself red in the face. He may grind or grit his teeth. He may splutter and foam at the mouth. He has a particularly menacing smile in that he smiles with his mouth and glares with his eyes. He also sneers. He breathes heavily. He huffs and puffs. He uses a particular tone of voice. This could be flat and cold or he could shout. He can sulk and terrify his partner because she does not know what he is thinking. He may whistle and hum.

He invades his partner’s personal space to intimidate her. He can lean over her or approach her from behind. He may come close to her face and rant or glare. He folds his arms, swings or taps his foot, drums his fingers or cracks his knuckles. He clenches his fists and fires questions at her without giving her a chance to answer.

As if that is not enough, he kicks the walls or furniture and selectively smashes things. These things are usually her prized personal possessions. He may sit in an aggressive manner, often thrusting his crotch, and can puff himself up to make himself look larger. He uses secret gestures, which only she will recognise as a threat because of her past experiences with him. He paces up and down. He bangs doors and slams things down on surfaces. He points. He makes sudden gestures and looks as though he is going to hit her, but stops just before making contact. He drives too fast… He is thinking clearly and he is completely in control of his emotions. He is not, therefore, angry.’