Trap

Trigger warning: coercive control

Erin Hopper smoothed her dark blue dress again and stood waiting for Griff in the designer kitchen of her house at 42 Hidden Way, Glen Innes Heights. He was late, but she wouldn’t ask where he’d been; she never did. As always, she’d just smile and nod and get him a G&T; it would be on the bench by the time he slammed the front door and barged his way into the kitchen. 

How much longer could it take?

He came in, swearing, just after five.

She noticed the rip in his earlobe first – even before she registered his shredded cotton shirt, and the snot and bloodied fluids around his nose and mouth. Someone had torn out that ridiculous gold ring in his left ear, something she’d failed to achieve in twenty long years.

“Griff! What –”

“Where the fuck were you?” he shouted. “You’re my fucking wife! You were supposed to be there!” 

“I’m sorry, I …”

She shrank at his venom and tore her gaze away from his wounded ear. She edged behind the island bench and pressed her palms flat on its granite surface. She imagined the coolness of the stone moving up her arms and into her chest, calming her pounding heart and shallow breathing; it worked sometimes.

Not today.

Griff advanced across the room, closing the distance between them and demolishing the temporary protection of the big island bench. He held his right arm against his stomach, cradling it with his left hand. Bruises the same slate blue as his anchor tattoo mottled the skin.  

“I said where were you?”

If only she had the courage to tell the truth.

“The school called,” she lied, struggling to keep her voice steady. “Someone rang in sick. They wanted me to supervise the Year Two kids. Just for the day.”

His roar filled the room as he swept his good arm across the bench, sending the gin and tonic crashing to the floor. The stink of rage and adrenaline came off him in poisonous waves. 

“That’s no excuse!” Griff slapped his meaty hand onto the benchtop, just missing her flattened palm. “That dickhead detective had me all wired up and you didn’t even show! And because of you, I had to come back here!”

Erin’s jaw trembled, but she said nothing. Didn’t move.

“The cops are waiting outside,” he said, through the side of his mouth. His teeth were rimed with blood behind his fat, bruised lip. “Now get upstairs and pack us some things, enough for a couple of weeks. I’ll be up in a minute.”

As he turned to leave, she saw he was limping and his thin grey ponytail had come loose. God, she hated that thing; he was fifty years old for goodness sake!

She swallowed.

So the gang had finally got him, just like he’d warned would happen. One day. The day he stopped making the payments. And now the police were outside, waiting to take them to a safe house. Safe for him, maybe, but not for her.

Her brain felt spongy and black. She tucked her hair behind her ears and closed her eyes, sending a quick prayer to whichever god protected trapped women. In her head she tested again the words she wanted to say: 

I’m not coming. 

Even thinking it made the bile rise hot and acid into her throat. She imagined spitting yellow strings of it out of her mouth, down her front and across the granite bench. He’d be furious, disgusted. What if she wet herself? She’d heard about people who soiled themselves in fright. She’d be one of them, for sure.

She was still standing there, rooted like a tree to one spot, when he stormed back into the kitchen. 

“Jesus, Erin, what are you doing? I told you to get ready! We’ve got to go!”

The black sponginess inside her head expanded and rolled then morphed into white bursts of light. She took her hands off the bench and clenched them by her sides. Out of his sight.

“I’m not coming.”

He looked at her, his eyes bulging with disbelief.

“What did you say?”

His voice was so cold. Erin clamped her bladder tight.

“I’m not coming,” she croaked.

He narrowed his eyes and sent a laser beam of hate her way. Or was it fear? She’d never seen him afraid. She dropped her eyes.

“You stupid, stupid bitch!”

Griff crashed out of the room and up the limed oak staircase. Overhead he swore and banged as he packed his own gear, for the first time in years. 

She crept around the bench and into the laundry, closer to the door that led outside.

He didn’t even say goodbye. Just thumped back down the stairs, out the front door and into the long protective arms of the law.

Erin slid down the laundry wall and onto the white tiled floor. The air zinged electric around her. She wrapped her arms around her legs, kneading her clammy skin. She smelled her own sweat and tasted the sour fear in her mouth. 

She was still there on the cool tiles when night began to fall and the front door opened and someone came into the house, shoes squeaking softly. She leaned her head against the laundry wall and breathed deeply, in and out, through her nose. Calming herself. It worked, sometimes.

Erin looked up at the gym-pumped man looming over her. She looked up and up and up at him, then stood slowly and smoothed down the new blue dress. A warm bloom of hope filled her chest.

“Detective.”

“You did well,” he said. “Now let’s get you out of here.”

Did you like this story? Comment below.