Photo by Annie Spratt. 

By Hannah Stevens
@stevens_han

It’s Autumn 2014 and everything is dying. I look out of my study window. It’s late afternoon and the cold blue light is already fading. Tall trees circle the edge of the garden, their thick trunks and half naked branches block out the houses beyond. It’s so quiet here: everything feels so far away.

The house is old, in need of repair but beautiful and falling to pieces in all of the right ways. There’s a green gate at the end of the driveway and hydrangea bloom in spring.

“It will be perfect for your writing won’t it,” my girlfriend had said a few years before. “You can have your own study.” I agreed without hesitation. We moved in and we were happy at first.

The study windows are single glazed and an autumn draught blows through. Outside a bonfire burns and the smell of smoke drifts in. I wonder which neighbour has lit the fire and I think about speaking to them, saying hello. Maybe they are lonely today too?

The days are long and solitary now. L leaves early for work, says she is too busy to talk at lunchtime. I turn the volume of the radio up. L will be home in a few hours and at least then I won’t be alone.

It’s already late when L arrives home, already dark. I hear the front door slam shut.

The kitchen is beneath my study and I hear L’s work boots fall heavily on the stone tiles. Downstairs L opens the kitchen cupboards, boils the kettle. I wonder if she will make me a cup of tea too and my heart swells at the thought of this little kindness.

A few minutes later I hear L’s heavy footsteps on the stairs, the floorboards creaking as she walks along the landing. I turn towards the door, stand, smile but L passes by and I watch her shadow move beneath the gap of the door and disappear.

It is difficult to remember when things began to fall apart, began to drift in this way, but I know it’s been a long time now and I already know it’s too late.

I swallow the lump in my throat and steel myself to go to her.

“How was work?” I ask, “it was another long day.” I know she’s avoiding me but I try to disguise the hurt in my voice.

“Fine,” L says. She rolls her eyes, in that impatient, sullen way she has with me now and looks out of the window. She never wants to talk about work. Never wants to talk to me about…anything.

The knot in my throat expands and I try to swallow it down. I’m having panic attacks almost every day now, though L doesn’t know. I have lost weight too: am bone-thin and none of my clothes fit. L doesn’t hold me anymore and I don’t think she’s even noticed. Earlier that day I tried to eat soup. I hoped the fiery autumn orange of it would finally tempt me. I’d sat at the table, leant over the hot, steaming bowl and swallowed a single spoonful before I retched and ran to the sink.

“Can you give me a hug?” I ask. L exhales, taps her foot impatiently.

“I’m going for a shower now,” she says and then she stands, leaves the room and I am alone again.

The first time I meet A we’re surrounded by rainbows and glitter. It’s Pride and we march together. The organisations that L and A work for are collaborating. Through the music and the banners and the crowd I notice how smitten L is by A. I’ve never seen this before. She’s usually so cool, so hard to reach, even to the people she loves.

A introduces himself. We talk in the crowd and A tells me his story. I’ve been married to women before, he says, but I’m gay. And now, after a lifetime of secrets and lies, I’m finally able to be me. The city is his fresh start, he tells me, now his new life can begin.

His story is compelling. It’s heartrending and neat. I know now, of course, that his tendency for violence, his desire for control have been slashed away in this version. The dark things have been edited out, tidied away and A has rebranded himself anew.

Weeks pass. A and L meet regularly. They drink coffee together and discuss their work over burgers. L barely speaks to me. We’re strangers living in the same space. And now everything is falling apart in all of the wrong ways.

One Saturday morning L surprises me and invites me for brunch with her and A. I feel too thin, too awkward, but I want to see him – this man that L likes so much – and to pretend that everything is okay. I order banana split, though it feels frivolous under the circumstances. It arrives in a glass bowl and is decorated with chocolate sauce. L rolls her eyes and calls me a child. I feel wounded but we all laugh.

Over the ice cream A asks about my writing. He holds my eye, tells me that he wants to read my work. I blush, flattered.

When winter arrives A’s not just L’s friend: he’s my friend too. He’s interested in my research, my thoughts on gender and politics. You have so much to say on these subjects, he tells me: I want to learn more. A is beginning a recruitment campaign at his work. We need more women on board he tells me.

We start to meet without L. We say, oh, it’s because of her shifts that she can’t come, though we both know it’s because she’s avoiding me.

I feel excited that A is so interested in my work, in me. He moved to the city for a promotion and people are impressed by his rank, on his insistence that he’s ordinary: that he’s just like them. I mistake people’s admiration for a sign that he’s a nice guy. And if I’m being honest, his status impresses me too.

The night it begins in earnest it’s January and cold enough to snow. A few tiny flakes fall from the sky. I meet A in a bar and a red-hot fire glows. We drink and we talk and suddenly it’s late.

His flat is nearby and home feels far away. We drift back to his place. We drink more and, then later, I decide to stay.

We’re okay to share aren’t we, he asks. Share a bed I mean. It’ll save me making up the spare that’s all. Yes, I say. Yes. And I think about how it’s been such a long time since anybody has held me.

In his bed I am the one who moves towards the heat of his body. It’s me who leans towards him until I can feel his breath on my face. And it is me who holds the blade-thin gap between us before I finally press my lips to his mouth.

After that, there’s no going back. The world feels different now, tighter somehow and I can’t quite explain it.

A few weeks pass and I have sex with A again. The heat of another body, being wanted by someone: for a little while it takes the loneliness of the last year away. Or at least I think it does.

Outside everything is frozen. At night I draw the curtains against the cold panes of glass, against something I can’t quite put my finger on. I realise I haven’t slept properly for months now.

In bed I notice the movements of L’s body. I could reach out to touch her but I don’t: she feels so far away.

There is something unspoken between us now. It’s more than the pulling away of before, more than the resentment of wanting to leave but of not knowing how to do it. Now L is suspicious. She’s suspicious of the time I spend with A. And she’s right to be. He’s not a person on the periphery anymore: he was woven himself in to the fabric of my life. And, in some ways, of her life too.

It’s Thursday and as usual I’m working from home. It’s an overcast day and the bare branches of trees sway in the icy wind. The hush of the afternoon is broken as I hear a car on the gravel driveway. I know it’s him. Soon there’s a knock on the door and then there he is with a hug, a story about his day. We drink tea in my study because it’s the warmest room in the cold house and the lonely hours of my day fade away. Like a friend he touches my arm, kisses my head. I confess my guilt to him, admit my loneliness, cry. It’s okay, he says, it’s all okay.

And there are lots of days like this. So many of them that I lose count.

I begin to miss days at work because I can’t leave the house. I feel too tired, too sick and I still can’t eat either. The daily messages from A are reassuring. He offers to visit with supplies to alleviate my symptoms: mints for the sickness, paracetamol for the headaches I can’t shake. And now he rings me most days too. He calls from his office, from his car. He likes to check how I am, he says, to make sure I’m okay. And before I know it he’s taking up most of my time. His visits are daily now and he’s good at finding windows when L is out. He comes to check on me, he says, to chat, though he always wants much, much more than this.

I want to tell L this secret. I want to confess. I want her to tell me that it’s okay, that we can still be friends. But even before, this was never an option. I could never be friends with an ex, she would say. Though the reasons for this were never clear. I decide that this time it will be different and so there’s too much at stake for honesty now. It’s been four years and even across the distance between us I still love her.

It’s February now and there’s a frost. I’m home alone again and the cold from the kitchen floor flagstones seeps through my thick socks. I wait for the kettle to boil and notice how the fig tree outside is almost bare of leaves now. I turn away from the window, see that my phone is ringing. A’s name flashes on the screen and I answer.

He tells me that he’s had a meeting with L that day. Their organisations are collaborating: it’s how they met after all. A tells me about the decisions made, the new ideas they’ve had. And then he tells me about L: how she was moody, cooler than she used to me. He speaks as though he’s wounded, as if L’s coolness is unwarranted and unprovoked.

I notice that I’m sympathetic: that I try to soothe him. A is spiky and argumentative. I realise afterwards that I have apologised.

It’s May 2015. In the garden tulips are blooming. Daffodils have pushed themselves through the damp soil and the sun begins to shine in a blue sky. It’s time for new beginnings. It’s time for letting go of the bleakness before. Finally I break it off with L.

I’m not sure where the courage comes from to do this but afterwards I feel relieved: the four months of this tangled double life are over now. Or at least that’s what I think. I tell L that nothing has been lost, that I still love her, that we can still be friends. I know that she won’t allow this, but I will try my best.
We decide to stay living together and for a while I make it work.

A is pleased when I tell him my news. I’ll look after you, he says. And soon he’s taking me out to drink, to dance, to visit places at the weekend. We continue to have sex too. This will help, he tells me, and laughs. And for a while it does. The shock of leaving L is numbed. A keeps me so busy that there’s hardly time to be upset. There are only rare moments of quietness to feel sad. And what I don’t notice at the time is that there’s no room for other friends either.

One night we go out for a drink. It’s a queer bar – one where I often used to go. There are disco lights and rainbows and I bump in to a friend. It’s been a long time since she’s seen me. She asks me where I’ve been all this time and I tell her that I’ve been unwell, that L and I have split up. She gives me a hug, tell me she’s sorry.

I turn around and notice that A is no longer behind me. I scan the bar and see him slipping through the door. My stomach lurches and I begin to sweat. He’s going to leave me and I realise that it’s been a long time since I was out anywhere without him. I suddenly feel terrified at the idea of a taxi ride alone, of getting home to a house that’s probably empty. I run out of the bar and find him on the street outside.

A is angry. Furious in fact. Had I planned to meet her, he asked? What was I doing just ignoring him like that? He tries to flag a taxi and I reach for his lifted arm.

Wait I plead. I’ll come back with you now, we’ll share a taxi. Too late, he says. He abruptly pulls his arm away and I lose my balance. There is a quiet thud: the noise of bone moving as I hit my face against the nearby wall. A bright white light flashes behind my eyelids and for a second I am blind. I lift my hand to my face and check for blood.

The next day I wake up alone. The right side of my face aches. Tentatively I touch my cheek and feel the tenderness in my flesh. I get up and check my face in the mirror. I look tired but feel relieved that there’s no graze: no visible damage.

I pick up my phone and send A a message. I hope you’re okay, I write. Not really, he replies. How would you feel if you’d been ignored by your best friend in a bar all night?

A’s sulking continues for a few days. I message him and try to ring him to apologise. Finally he answers and agrees to see me. I realise that I haven’t seen anybody else for days.

At his house he finally hugs me, says that it’s okay. The knot in my stomach begins to loosen. A takes my hand and begins to lead me to his bedroom. I shake my head and say that I don’t want to. Immediately he drops my hand. He paces for a second and then sits down.

I’m afraid that I think physical intimacy, sex, is a really important thing, he says.

He uses my name after this sentence and then continues. It brings a mental closeness and trust that isn’t present in simpler friendships. I drop my eyes, stare at the palms of my hands. It sounds so rehearsed, though I don’t notice this at the time. Later he will send me messages like this too. Exactly like this and I still have them on my phone.

Something is lost when the sex is lost, he says, not just physically, but mentally. I tell him that before he’d always said that the sex was secondary to our friendship: that the friendship was the most important thing. His eyes glaze over and for a few seconds we sit in silence.

I think of the lonely days before, the knot in my stomach and when he stands and takes my hand again, I follow him.

I can’t remember now if this was the first time it happened this way or if it was the tenth time. But it happened. And it happened again. And I can’t count them all.

It’s Christmas Eve 2015 and there are presents beneath my Christmas tree. The fairy lights sparkle. I’m going to the neighbour’s house for mulled wine and mince pies soon. I pour a drink before I leave and try to feel more upbeat.

The past few days have been stressful. I told A again that I didn’t want to have sex with him anymore. I told him I just wanted to be friends, that I didn’t want the ‘benefits.’ Like the countless times before, this didn’t go well. He tells me again that it’s all or nothing and the thought of this loneliness paralyzes me. He raises his voice and I feel frightened. Afterwards he doesn’t message me for days.

I realise now that the longer I am tangled in this… relationship with him, the more it destroys my self-esteem. I am still having panic attacks: still struggling to leave the house alone.

A few days after New Year I’m at home. I send A a message. I tell him that
I’m sorry we’re not friends. I tell him that I feel upset, embarrassed and confused. These are the actual words that I use. I say I don’t know if I should message or not. But I just want to say that I hope it’s better soon and that we can be friends again.

Within a few minutes A responds. I feel all those things too, he says, and I’m pleased you’ve messaged. I’m embarrassed because I got frustrated, angry and raised my voice. I’m confused by how it’s got to this stage and that I’ve managed to make myself feel bad and responsible.

At the time I mistake this response for an apology. When I read his words now I notice that there’s no sorry in this message. I see his lack of accountability. I see that he’s actually sorry because he’s allowed himself, for a brief time, to feel responsible for his fury. I can see now that he already blames me again. Blames me for saying no. Blames me for wanting this to stop.

Later that year L is back in a relationship with her ex-girlfriend. She’s been slowly moving out for months now, even though her dog still lives with me. One morning I wake up and the internet connection has stopped working. She’s the one who pays the bill and so I message her to say that there’s a fault. L replies that she’s cancelled it. I’m never there anymore, she says, and even after all this time I’m stunned by her coldness.

By October 2016 A has convinced me to move in with him.

It’s for the best he says. You need somewhere quiet to finish your PhD. You don’t need L sulking and stomping whenever she bothers to come home to check on her dog. I know that this is a mistake but I let him convince me that it will be okay.

I remember going through my options. Not my parents, I think. Because my grandma is dying and I know that it wouldn’t work.

I think of a few of my now-distant friends with spare rooms, rule them out. I find a few house shares online but need to arrange viewings and all of that takes time. You need to decide quickly A tells me. There’s no internet at your house now and you have a PhD to finish, remember.

On the day I move in A helps me to put my bed frame together. We’re tightening bolts and sliding wooden slats in to place. He’s sullen and I already know what’s wrong. He looks up, catches my eye.

This isn’t how it was supposed to be, he says and I know that he’s unhappy about me having my own bed. But we agreed, I say. If I moved in with you then we’d just be friends. I’d have my own bed and there’d be no sharing anymore.

A stays silent. He continues to tighten the bolts of the bed and it’s like I haven’t spoken at all.

On the 10th November 2016 I drink wine with somebody else and I sleep with them. I stay at their house all night. A is at work when I return the next day and so I busy myself with my writing and research. There’s a knot of panic in my stomach but I don’t expect what comes next.

A returns early from work. The back room in his house is a makeshift study for me now and so I am at my desk when I hear the front door open and then quietly close.

I can’t remember how it begins. But I do remember that suddenly A is shouting at me. I’m still sat at my desk and he’s standing above me. His face is red and twisted with fury and, as he shouts, I feel his spit land on my lips. He shouts that I am a selfish cunt: that I am a disgusting slut.

There’s a hot cup of tea on my desk and, as he shouts and lurches towards me, he knocks it. It doesn’t spill but we both notice the near-miss. I think of the scalding liquid and the damage it could do. A catches my eye and I know that he’s thinking the same.

I stand quickly and head to the kitchen next door. A counsellor told me afterwards that this was a mistake. I didn’t need telling by then of course, but she told me anyway.

A follows me in to the kitchen and I realise that I’m trapped. The kitchen is narrow and A’s body is between me and the door. Soon he’s smashing crockery and shards of blue plates, broken glass, coffee cups scatter on the floor.

A is still shouting. He swings his arms and knocks the items on the sideboard over. I notice the knife block tilt and then fall on to its side. A steps towards it, chooses the one with the serrated blade. I’m trapped between him and the sideboard now. I stay silent and avoid his eyes.

A holds the knife up, points it at my face. He brushes my cheek with its point.

How close I think: how easy it would be for him to press harder, to pull it slowly across my skin. You, he says, are a selfish cunt. You – he uses my name this time – use people, and then discard them when it suits you. He turns the blade towards himself then and pulls me towards him.

The handle jabs in to the ditch of my shoulder. The point of the blade rests on his chest. There’s just a knife length between us. I hold my breath.

He continues: I can’t stop thinking about somebody else’s hands all over you. This has destroyed me, he tells me. Maybe you should just finish the job. Go on. Kill me.

A few seconds pass and suddenly he lets go of me. I feel the pressure release and then he turns and throws the knife across the kitchen. I watch where it lands, how it narrowly misses Agatha, my house rabbit, and then I quickly turn and run through the kitchen door and up the stairs.

The bathroom is the only room in the house with a lock. I close the door and slide the small bolt in to place.

When I emerge from the bathroom A is sitting on the chair in my bedroom. I, I don’t know what came over me, he says. There’s an eerie calmness to him. He speaks slowly and quietly, the way somebody might mimic something they’ve seen before.

A few weeks pass and there’s a fragile quietness in the house. Communication is mainly by message now. Who are you speaking to? A would ask from his bedroom next door. I saw the light of your phone as I passed by. I switch off my mobile, listen to the creaks of the old house and hope the noises are not A’s feet on the floorboards.

By 8pm most evenings I’m in bed. It’s a tactic to avoid A, to avoid having to tell him that I still love him: that I don’t blame him. Of course this doesn’t work for long.

One evening I see his shadow pause beneath the gap of my bedroom door. I hold my breath, hoping he’ll pass. Instead, uninvited, he pushes the door open.

A takes a seat on the chair in my bedroom. I’m not a bad person, he begins, and, of course, I agree. I know, I say, I know you’re not. A continues, it’s just I can’t have you living here if there’s nothing more to our friendship anymore. He means, of course, if I won’t have sex with him any longer.

And while you live here, he says, I’m afraid you can’t see anybody else. It’s just too difficult for me. I’m sure this won’t be a problem for you: you have your PhD to finish anyway. He speaks calmly and with authority. I think of him at work and wonder if this is how he communicates with his subordinates. In his head, this deal is already done.

It’ll probably be difficult for you to find somewhere else with cheap rent too wouldn’t it, he continues, though, of course, it’s up to you.

I say nothing and he takes my silence as ascent. Quietly he leaves my room.

This was the tipping point for me: my moment of clarity. I didn’t know where I would go. But I knew that if I stayed my life would get worse in ways I had only so far imagined in the early hours of my sleepless nights.

I know now that he thought I would stay, that he thought he had me in a position where I couldn’t leave. And so, when I pack a bag the following week he’s utterly and unbelievably shocked.

It was Friday 9th December and A was heading away for the weekend. That evening he had a dinner date with a then-mutual friend. They slept together too and I assumed he wouldn’t come home after work. I’d spoken to my parents the day before and they’d agreed to let me stay over Christmas. Even after everything I couldn’t tell them why I had to leave. They thought we were good friends – couldn’t understand my sudden change of heart.

I can’t take much with me because there won’t be room. And so I console myself with taking the important things, with telling myself that I will be safe now. And free. Earlier that day I drop Agatha at a foster carer and cry as I leave her. Back at A’s house I pack a single suitcase of clothes.

Downstairs, through the silence, I hear the front door open. I realise that it’s A and a shiver runs down my spine. I hear his footsteps as he checks the kitchen, sees that Agatha has gone, sees a few items thrown in to a plastic bag.

His footsteps quicken and then he’s on the stairs and then the landing and I know that I’m trapped.

I know that I’m in real danger now. The boundaries of my relationship with A have always been blurred: forced, shifted and dictated by him. And in this instant I know that, yet again, my perception of this won’t matter. It won’t matter because I know how he sees it: I am his partner and I’m leaving him.

Two women a week are murdered in the UK by their partners, or ex-partners, and I know that women are most at risk of being killed when they leave. This is that moment.

I look up from my suitcase. A appears in the doorway of my bedroom. I don’t try to run. Instead I take a seat on my bed and stare in to the middle distance. My heart feels as though it might burst. My palms sweat.

Immediately A throws himself towards me and I brace. But instead of violence A hugs me, kisses me and cries. I go limp in his arms. He tells me that he can’t believe I’m leaving. He asks me what I will tell people.

I tell him not to worry: that I won’t tell anyone what happened. We agree to say that our house share just didn’t work out: that there was nothing more to it than that.

I can’t remember now how long this goes on for. But soon he’s collected his suit, packed his weekend bag and he’s gone.

It’s dark when I leave A’s house and outside it’s cold. I inhale the freezing air. I see the blazing white stars and I cannot quite believe that I’m still alive.

I wish that that was where it ended. I wish that I could tell you that I was free, that the hurt stopped there. But that wouldn’t be true.

A is a man of status. His reputation matters and he must safeguard it. In the months that follow I find out that he’s telling people he gave me notice to leave. According to A, I was keeping him awake at night with wild parties, with unsuitable men and strange women in my bed.

I know now that this is a common pattern. This is what abusers do to protect their reputation, to discredit any woman who might tell the truth.

A few months later, A heads up a recruitment campaign for his organisation. They need more women in their ranks, his Twitter tells me. And he’s the one to encourage them. We talked about this when we first met and now I see it in action. I watch as people praise A for this work and for doing the right thing. I watch silently as he encourages interested women to get in touch with him and I feel sick.

On the 8th March 2017 it’s International Women’s Day. That year there’s a Be Bold for Change pledge. I check A’s Twitter account and see that he’s proudly signed it.

I want to know what this means and so I look up the campaign. Google tells me that there are many ways to be ‘bold.’ You can educate young people about positive relationships, it tells me. You can challenge those who justify perpetrators and blame victims, and you can speak out against the silence of violence.

The silence of violence. I like the poetry of this and I write it in a notebook. I think of my own silence and I swallow, look out of the window.

I deliberate for a few hours and finally send A a message. I ask what his pledge is and if it’s in response to anything he did to me.

I want to find out that he’s changed: that this isn’t just to make him look good. I want him to tell me that he’s sorry, that he won’t do anything like this again. But, of course, he doesn’t respond.

It’s Autumn 2019 now and everything is beginning to die. I look out of my study window. It’s late afternoon and the soft September sun is beginning to fade. A has moved from the city where all of this happened, and now, so have I.

It took a long time but L got her own way in the end. I told her about A: about his violence, his coercion. I told her these things more than once. But she didn’t want to listen. It’s been a long time now, she said, you should just let it go.

Sometimes L and A still work together. I guess it’s just business as usual.

A few months before, in August, I visit the house where I lived with L.

The driveway gravel crunches beneath my feet. Just like it did when we first moved in. Just like it did beneath A’s black, polished shoes.

In front of me I see the island of roses and, to my left, the hydrangeas bloom. It looks the same, I think: it looks like nothing has changed.
It’s early morning and still cool. I walk a circle of the rose bed and then stand at the green gate. My hands ache in the damp cold and I shake them to stir the circulation.

I don’t feel the ring as it slips from my finger, though I hear it land somewhere close by. I check my hands and realise that the ring I still wear from L is missing. I scan the floor but know that the ring has gone: know that it’s lost amongst the broken fragments of stone.

I inhale and look up. There are clouds in the sky but the sun shines behind them.

Hannah Stevens is a queer writer of short stories and creative non-fiction. She has a PhD in Creative Writing and is a researcher,workshop leader and activist.