I try to take my mind off my vigil. I dreamt of the pop star that saw me in the crowd, and whisked me away with him. I dreamt of the handsome prince (not from the British Royal Family, of course), who turns me into a beautiful princess and takes me to a palace far away. He’d let me sleep peacefully in a giant four-poster bed, deep within the palace, where I couldn’t hear the sound of the front door. He kept vigil for me, then, like me, is awoken by the crash of the door.
It is Christmas Eve now. I could be six or 16, eight or 18. I listen for the door, even though I know that tonight I will hear the resounding crash. I also know that tomorrow I will have to pretend to be cheerful as I open my presents under their stony glare. I dare not cry. They will tell me off. They say that their violent arguments are nothing to do with me. I should not be affected by it. As if I could live in this house, and not be affected.
The pop star and handsome prince, who help me through my vigil, have given way to a swashbuckling action hero now. A man who will beat my stepfather up before escaping through the front door, with me in his arms, taking me off into the horizon.
The front door crashes shut, and I know for certain now that tomorrow I will choke down overcooked, dry turkey for lunch, half-heartedly pull a cracker with each of them, then sit watching Ben Hur. All the time, trying desperately not to shed the tears that will anger them.
He will not hit me. He never does. He will hit her because of me, and that, believe it or not, is much, worse. Again they will tell me that, “You won’t be affected by things that go on behind this front door”.
I am convinced that I am becoming a machine. I only remember the enforced silence. I remember trembling so much that I felt sick. I remember lying awake at night, listening for the front door. I remember the numbness that I trained myself to feel. I cannot remember ever feeling emotion.
I spent a lot of time behind that front door. It was easier not to go to school. That way I would not have to explain why I did not want to take friends home. I would not have to explain to teachers why I was always tired and pale.
Besides I learned a lot behind that front door. I learned that cracked ribs can be held in place by wrapping a black bin liner tightly around her abdomen. I learned never to tell the neighbours how she came by these injuries, even though they must have known. They too must have heard.
I learned to get up before him, to hide the post, just in case there was a red utility bill that she had forgotten to pay. I learned never to mention my real father's name in his presence. I learned to keep the house tidy. I learned that if I were naughty, she would suffer. I learned to be unnaturally well behaved. Unnaturally quiet. An unnatural child. I learned things that a girl, whether she is six or 16, eight or 18, should never know.
