Page 125 of Twisted Lies
The figure on the ground groaned and relief flooded her body. She allowed herself to fully relax.
She didn’t want him dead. She wanted him to face justice for his crimes, and she looked forward to seeing this man in court.
One Hundred Seven
I look out of the window as I always do at this time. She is there on the bench, my constant, my familiarity. My link to the person I was before. My heart twists and turns inside my chest. The ache to go to her, to tell her everything, is stronger today than ever. It’s a physical pain that starts in my stomach and grabs at my heart. I want to feel her arms around me. I want her to tell me everything will be okay. I want her to reassure me that I did the right thing. But I can’t.
A woman approaches from the left. She is wearing impossibly high heels which give her a clumsy gait, as though she might topple over at any minute.
I don’t know her but I know she’s a reporter for theDudley Star. I’ve been reading her articles all week.
She has been writing about me.
Somehow, she has turned the tide of public opinion. There is talk of new evidence, of a new witness. A public statement from the PR firm distancing themselves from my murder.
I shudder as the memories overwhelm me again. My right arm rubs at my left shoulder. Involuntarily, the hand slides down, seeking its mirror image. My tongue darts around my mouth, in and out of gaps. Parts of my body seem to be constantly searching for parts that are no longer there. They were removed and burned along with my clothes in the back garden of my home.
The teeth were easier than I’d thought, and as the blood had poured from my mouth, I opened wide and let it drip to the ground. As I closed my eyes and pulled hard on the pliers, the pain had shot from the nerves around the whole of my body. I had thought it would be preparation for what was to come next. I was wrong. Nothing could prepare me for the pain as I made the first slice across my flesh.
The tourniquet was tied tightly above my elbow. I waited almost an hour until I had no feeling in my lower arm, all the way to the tips of my fingers. I picked up the knife and tried to remember everything I’d learned.
I’d watched the final scenes of127 Hoursa hundred times, living those moments alongside Aron Ralston as he cut off the arm that was trapped by a boulder. By the third viewing, the emotion had left me and my viewing was analytical, studious. I no longer thought about the man behind the pain but only of the process.
I read articles and medical reports about cutting across the joint to avoid the bone. I learned that chopping at the elbow meant dealing with only one artery instead of two. I learned the value of a properly applied tourniquet to limit blood loss. I read up on the four major nerves that would retract into the muscle if I got it right. I read personal accounts of others who had severed their own limbs to survive. And that was exactly what I was doing.
My right hand shook as I held the knife above my elbow. Did I have the strength to go through with it? Could I take the pain? Was there any other way? But from the second I did the home pregnancy test, I knew that I had to escape Nick somehow. I knew the violence wouldn’t stop, even if he knew his child was growing inside me. I knew there was no way he’d ever let me go, and our child would have bound me to him for ever.
I considered every possibility, before reaching the conclusion that he would find me unless he thought I was dead. And then I began to think of the girls he would meet after me, even if I did manage to disappear. There was no doubt in my mind that he would eventually kill someone.
It had to be final, for him and for me.
As I fought with my fear, Nick’s rage-filled face swam before my eyes. It was the face that saw no reason. It was the face of the man that couldn’t stop hitting and kicking me, despite the blood pouring from my injuries. It was the face of a man that I knew would somehow kill me or our child, but most likely both.
It was that one, single thought that propelled the knife towards the target, and for once I was grateful for the remoteness of the house. My scream had the power to travel for miles. The numbness had been temporary and all feeling returned as I made the second cut. From that point I knew there was no going back. The only way was forward.
I thought about Doug Goodale, a lobster fisherman who used a knife to cut off his elbow after getting it caught in a winch.
I thought about Bill Jeracki, who used a bait knife to cut his own leg off at the knee to free himself from a boulder.
I knew it could be done. I just had to stay strong and focused.
In saving my child I lost my mother, my sister and the rest of my family.
I ache daily for the pain I’ve caused them, that I am responsible for their grief, but it was the only way.
I return to the present and watch as my mum turns and hugs the reporter beside her on the bench. The woman is uncomfortable but accepts the embrace.
My mum is smiling and crying at the same time. A tear escapes and rolls over my cheek. I want more than anything to take away her pain, but I can’t: not until Nick is safely behind bars.
Maybe then I can find a way to let her know that I’m alive, that despite everything, I’m happy.
But for now, I reach into the cot and scoop up my child. I hold him close to my chest, kissing his feathery head.
I take him to the window and make him a silent promise.
One day he will meet his family.
One Hundred Eight
