Page 2 of King of Clubs

I could clean the mess. Wrap my injured hand. Have a fresh beer ready for when he returned. Apologise – because it was always my fault.

He would beg for my forgiveness as he always did.

And it would be okay.

It was okay.

Wasn’t it?

It could be worse.

Couldn’t it?

Find your strength.

Fuck.

My heart began a steady beat, increasing as my eyes darted around the dishevelled room. My mind fighting against a decision my heart had already made.

Like a deep tissue massage working the tension from my neck the realisation settled across my skin and bled through to my soul.

I was ready and it was time. This was not who I was. Not someone I was proud to be and I couldn’t survive another week, month, or year living this life,ifI made it that long. Whether he wanted to or not, he was going to go too far one day.

This wasn’t love. I wasn’t sure it ever had been.

He’d taken so many things from me and I’d excused them all. Until even the excuses were pitiful.

I had no one left. No one who wasn’t someone he also knew and could manipulate.

I’d pushed everyone away with excuses, ignored messages, unanswered calls and lies. Always lies. Anything to cover the shame of the life I was living.

But there was one person. One person who still reached out even when most of her messages went unanswered or were deleted before I had the chance to even read what they said. Someone who would fight for me. Someone who would search for me if anything ever happened. Who would remember me. Someone who could and would help because she always had.

If I had any hope of finding myself, it would be with her by my side.

She would be my strength.

Until I found my own.

Today was the day.

Marlee

Chapter One

Present Day

Thelivelybowingofa violin provided a playful hint to Sia’sCheap Thrillsin the quiet waiting room. I bopped my head in time with the calming instrumentals, allowing the soft hues of lavender to accompany the music, bringing my heart rate back to normal.

I’d raced up the three flights of stairs, the pressure of running late fuelling me to get there quicker, even though, by the time I spoke to the receptionist and sat down, there were still twenty-six minutes before my appointment. When sessions with your therapist cost you a small fortune, you bet your arse I was going to be there early with a bag full of time anxiety.

There was an array of magazines and self-help books in the centre of the room waiting patiently to be read, beige lounges surrounding the table ready to host. The walls were bare other than the occasional motivational quote —every new day offering a new opportunity or beginning;the first step is the hardestand a list of ideas for improving your mental health.

The waiting room was a comforting space, each element scrupulously selected to afford an assuring ambience. The perfect balance between caring and professionalism interwoven through the potted plants carefully placed in each corner.

I surreptitiously watched people as they entered and exited, pondering why they were here and how they were feeling. Some looked as though they were carrying a lot, their journey to healing in the early stages, and I remembered that pain and struggle well. Others appeared lighter, leaving with an hour less stress on their shoulders – now shared with someone else.

It was this internal game which kept my own negative thoughts at bay until my name was called by the young receptionist sitting at the front desk. Her smile was kind as she ushered me through the clinic, the click clack of her heels on the wooden floors echoing down the hall. She held off on menial small talk and I was glad because it was the worst of all the talks and I was already about to spend an hour doing just that. I nodded gratefully as she gestured to the room I was to enter and opened the door.

---