Page 22 of King of Clubs

Chapter Eight

Sitting on the sandstone ledge that separated the ocean from the world beyond, I watched the water form into white peaks before running up along the shore. The chirpy voices of enthusiastic athleisure wearing mums and their strollers passed, cappuccinos in hand as they walked. My hair was flying loose around my face, my claw clip long forgotten beside me as I breathed in the salty misted air.

The beach was always my place of refuge when things were too heavy. A place to stop, pause and reset before navigating whatever was currently eroding my soul – and as an only child, I leaned towards the dramatics which meant the troubles were often and seemed extreme. My eyelids closed as flickers of a day long ago flashed before me like a movie in an old theatre. Dad asleep on the sand, a hat slung across his face, Mum and I close-by building a sandcastle. She followed every one of my instructions with a nod – no matter how ridiculous. Anything to cheer me up after our bird had escaped the day before from a cage I left open. The naivety of a six-year-old who thought birds could roam as freely as our pup did and still return for dinner.

The sound of seagulls pierced my periphery as the next film commenced. This time I was with Arna, surrounded by snacks, sunscreen and the latest copy of our favourite teenage magazine at the centre opened to the juicy questions as we giggled at the things we would never dare to ask but were desperate to seek answers for.

A sudden transition to an overcast day and a movie I longed to forget. My tears mixed with the salt of the water as I washed the filthy words from my skin, hoping if I left them out there I could return to a waiting Lucas on the sand and pretend he hadn’t just told me my thighs were too fat, my arms too big, my bikini too tight.

Too. Too. Too. Never just right.

Leaving the bitter memory behind where it could no longer penetrate, I soaked in the sun, listening to the cacophony of broken conversations with the intermittent crash of waves covering the wet sand. Humming a Beatles classic, I took a lung-deep breath of air and tapped my fingers from my pinky through to my thumb. Suzie would be impressed with my use of her suggested meditative techniques and I couldn’t deny she was right. While I loved humming, she put it down to a learnt coping mechanism to kerb my feelings of anxiety and suggested I couple it with thoughtful breathing. Currently, it was working and I closed my eyes basking in the equanimity of being outside on my own. The brevity of fear which used to accompany that, no longer able to reach me.

Before long, my peace was interrupted as a shadow cast across my closed eyes. A body too close sat next to me. A hand so familiar yet so foreign, grabbing hold of my wrist.

A little too tight. A lot too much. Too, too, too.

The bitter energy drink-soaked breath mixed with stale cigarettes filled my nostrils, replacing the fresh aquatic nodes as his gravelly voice spoke into my ear.

“There you are.”

Panic rushed through me. The blood draining from my face as a silent scream escaped my open mouth.

“Lucas, no!” I pleaded, the fear obvious in my shaky voice, yanking my hand away and feeling it collide with something hard. Pain shot up my arm and I reached for it with my other hand to soothe the ache.

Coming here was a mistake. I'd become complacent leaving myself so exposed.

I was never going to be safe. He would always find me.

“We’re going home,” his grin was sadistic and his eyes held the familiar glazed vacancy they did after he’d been drinking.

“No, no, no!” I repeated, scanning the blank faces of those around me for help. Could no one hear me?

Ignoring my refusals, he grabbed my wrist again, pulling me towards him. I could no longer hear the chatter of the women walking or feel the wind in my hair. Instead, I was consumed by his oppressive heat. Overwhelmed by the compulsion to escape as I'd often felt when he was near.

I needed to get away. Fight, run, anything – I would not go with him…

As I thrashed in an attempt to escape, a deep, calming voice replaced the ashtray-stained chords of my nightmare.

“Marlee, wake up. It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

I shuddered, sweaty and hot, realising I had never been in danger from anything other than the prison of my own mind. Sebastian’s reassurance slowly bringing me back from the precipice of defeat.

He refused to loosen his grip, holding me tight to his bare chest, soothing me with slow lengthy strokes of my back. His body swallowed mine in the nicest possible way and I did my best to shrink into him. My breathing was still fast and I was shaking as I thought about the strategies Suzie reminded me of only yesterday in our emergency call for times such as these.

Humming. Breathing. Tapping my fingers. But none of them would still my racing heart.

Bring yourself back to baseline and ground yourself in something familiar.

I pictured her comforting face – number one.

Her short grey hair styled with a fringe that few could pull off – two.

Her clear-framed glasses and kind smile – three.

The green and white striped shirt she had been wearing in our session yesterday – four – and the photo of her grandchildren, two boys, which hung in her office – five.

I thought about the things I could feel. The firm strength of the supportive arms that currently held me. The bare, damp chest my face was pressed against. The soft sheets that still covered my legs.

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