Fall and Flight
Anna Stanton
TW: Depiction of Domestic Violence
I open my eyes to face my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I take in what I’d been denying for so long, grimacing at what I find. I’m thinner. Each cut, break, burn, and bruise whispers enough. I almost cry when I turn to assess my once crisp, snowy wings. Their feathers are scorched and sooty. What is causing me the most trouble though are the chains. Their rough metal bites into my flesh. Its broken ends rattle across the tiles. Gingerly, I trace the edges of the largest of the bruises and cuts. As I blink back tears, I know that others are unable to see it. Perhaps though that is a blessing.
The steam filling the room beckons me into the shower. A stinging pain shoots through my body as hot water hits the open wounds. Tears fall. I sink to the floor of the shower. The water doesn’t hurt so much now. Tears and blood are washed down the drain. Had I done it? I am almost certain that the horned man with his forked tongue of silver doesn’t realise that I am serious. That he thinks I will come crawling back begging his forgiveness. Begging for him to take me back. Never again though… I’d made that clear… Right?
The fog of sleep takes over my mind before I can make it into my bed leaving me with no recollection of how long I had spent in the shower. With a sense of tranquillity, and determination, I start my day. His horns are hidden when he emerges from his room. Still, that forked, silver tongue flicks around, ‘How are you this morning? Did you sleep well?’
Queries so normal, so innocuous yet they were anything but. Like after every past incident he was testing the temperature. The concerned tone was not for my well-being but for how much control he had over me. So up my shield went as I kept my demeanour even, ‘I got a good night’s rest so I’m pretty good today.’
In those first days, my joy of freedom was only marred by interactions with him. He carefully kept his horns hidden. I knew his game now as we negotiated the details of our separation. Sitting around the table I wrote as we talked through the division of our possessions. It was simple enough, for the most part, we kept what we came into the relationship with. I get what is needed for caring for the child. He wanted a few things and gave reasons that left me incensed. I swallowed the rage; it wasn’t worth the trouble of escalating things. Arrangements for the child were readily agreed upon with me being their primary carer. I set boundaries for the temporary cohabitation; the horns started to emerge. I could feel the shift in his energy, telling me how dare I do this. Trying to remind me that I belong to him. I stood firm, bracing my shield. His answer to the obvious loss of control over me… demand the same rules be applied to me.
Somewhere in the first month, I realised I wasn’t free of him. First, the messages started. Once a month. When he was bored. Or when someone reminded him he had a child. Or…who knows… He would ask to see my child. Or talk to them. I agreed to meet him in person. I had to allow him to see my child. Always somewhere public. Over my shield, he poked at me. Looking for a link in the chains he’d forged, trying to grab a hold of me by it again. Lathering the honeyed words and sad, puppy eyes like never before. All his efforts fell flat as they hit my shield. Even if he could break my shield, the love that lent him forgiveness was long dead. The chain itself was shifting. Links reforging, what would they be?
Whenever he was alone with me, I could see those horns. They barely broke the skin. It was still just enough to get the adrenalin started. I could feel my energy shift a cool river flowing into my arms and legs, my weight shifting to the balls of my feet. My mind moved in a constant loop. Processing every piece of information it could gather on the situation. Planning as many steps ahead as possible. I would be ready no matter his actions.
The world kept turning and life went on. He found a place. I constantly wore a mask of tranquillity. School started back for my child. We found stability in the consistent daily routines that had once been so hard to maintain. Not hearing from him for weeks at a time was good. Then he would make contact and spend a few hours tearing through everything like some unnatural disaster. Leaving chaos in his wake as he vanished back to whichever crossroads he was stalking.
During those quiet times, I’d do my best to help my child work through things. They struggled to understand why. Why can’t Daddy stay with us anymore? Was a hard one, even worse was when the beautiful little soul asked if they had done something wrong, and if they apologised then Daddy could live with us again. Anytime I was asked these hard questions all I could do was hold my child close. I would tell my innocent little one that I couldn’t say why Daddy had to go yet but if you ask me again when you are older, I promise to tell you the whole truth. I promise that I will never stop loving you and that I will never leave you. You did absolutely nothing wrong, my perfect little angel. You have nothing to apologise for. I would give my all to building that little person up in those weeks. Each time that horned man spent time with us I put my war paint on over the mask and raised my shield. After every battle was over, I grew a little.
On the nights I had alone, the mask would slip. Memories would crash through my mind, an overpowering storm. The storm fed the flames that burnt within. The tranquil mask unable to contain the inferno and storm would shatter. The two rage side by side feeding into each other. Finally, they burn out. I piece my mask back together and return it to its place. I can’t do without it yet…
The cycle continued as the seasons changed. We would enjoy the few weeks of peace before he would tear through our lives. I got better at managing the aftermath. My child grew accustomed to his absence. Until something happened again… Something else in his life didn’t go his way… I’ll never know… He was triggered again and those horns that had been barely perceptible were in full view. He turned his ire on people who had never seen it before. I felt the chain tighten again its new form still incomplete. Small cuts grew, and scars tore. The energy shifted in my body. Starting in my core it was cool and thick like oil, it flowed into my limbs before igniting. Everything in my mind hazy except for a single fact, I wouldn’t let him hurt them. Knowing that trying to use fire against him would be counter-productive, I soothed it to provide warmth to those he had turned on.
With each visit he had with my child he and I would observe each other in our silent battle. I knew what he was looking for. He wanted to see me fall deeper into that pit of despair I had been in all these years. What he got was very different and I didn’t care anymore how he felt about that.
Eight months have passed since that night. That night I found my first shred of courage and told him enough. Granted a quiet moment alone I return to my mirror once again. The bruises have faded away. All that remains of the cuts, burns, and breaks is a patchwork of scars. Now I hear them whisper never again, a quiet, consistent reminder. Twisting to see my back; I find my feathers while still soot-stained, show no signs of being scorched. Flexing the muscles, I find they are no longer withered. The chain no longer a length of metal to constrict me hangs on my torso, now a sturdy chainmail protecting me.
I head outside feeling the warmth of the sun as it kisses my skin and the cool breeze as it calls me to the sky. I know I may wear the chainmail for the rest of my existence and that the scars may never fade. I will stand tall and carry them with pride. Proof of the hell that I was slowly pulled into. Proof that I dragged myself out.
I’m ready. I take a step forward and spread my wings. I feel the wind pick up in anticipation. Every fibre of my being comes alive as I take that first heavy beat down. The chainmail rattles with every wingbeat. I look ahead and see the battles that yet await. I am free… I know his tactics. Shield and axe at the ready, war paint on. I am a shieldmaiden like the Valkyries of the old ways. It is time to remove the mask. Time for me to soar.
Anna is a single mum of one by day and an aspiring fantasy author by night. Hailing from the city of Toowoomba, twenty-nine-year-old Anna has been an avid reader since childhood. She hopes to inspire others as she has been inspired by authors such as Christopher Paolini and Cecilia Dart-Thornton.
