Blossoming

The bruises bloom like purple flowers. Hibiscus perhaps. Hibiscus rosa-sinensis. The marks will fade to a deep blue. Like cineraria. Cineraria senetti. After that, a sickly yellow.

Tansy. Tanacetum vulgare.

You recite the names in your head, your mouth forming soundless words.

A hairline fracture in the ceiling captures your attention. An imperfection in the

otherwise immaculate surface. You’re surprised he hasn’t noticed. Fixed it. Like he tries to fix you.

Lying on the bed that you share, you wonder when he’ll be back.

It won’t happen again. I swear.

***

He likes to drink beer in the sunshine. Today he’s watching you plant marigolds.

Calendula officinalis.

“Make sure you don’t track dirt into the kitchen again,” he says. The bottle clanks as he places it down on the patio table.

You turn your face in his direction. Nod once. In your peripheral vision, you see him stand and stretch.

“I’m going for a nap.”

You turn back to your task, listen as his footsteps recede. You breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth.

***

The glass lies in fragments on the kitchen floor. You imagine one of them slicing into your finger, the blood that will flow down to your wrist when you hold it up. Rose-red. Deep Secret. Floribunda.

He’s at work. You must sweep up the mess before he returns. But you know his lips will tighten when he notices the missing tumbler.

***

Your gown is ankle length with a high neckline. Periwinkle blue. Vinca minor.

You did not want to come to the ball. Did not want to sit here while he bids for

expensive lots.

A squeeze of your thigh. Warm breath in your ear. “You’d better not be making eyes at him.”

You realise your gaze has been fixed on the man seated opposite while your mind

wandered.

A quick response. “No.” You focus your attention on your half-finished meal.

You sense him studying your profile. A heartbeat, two, three. Then his lips move to your neck.

***

“When are you coming to visit? I haven’t seen you for months,” your mother says.

Your grip tightens on the phone. “Soon.”

You wait for him to arrive home.

When he walks through the door, you keep your gaze on his tie. Black narcissus. Not black, but deep red. You offer your cheek.

“My mother called,” you tell him over dinner. “She wants us to visit.”

“She called you, or you called her?”

“She called me.”

He sighs. “You know how I feel about your parents.”

“If we don’t go, they might turn up here.”

A frown. “I don’t want your dad here, stinking out my house with his cancer sticks.”

Your father always smokes in the garden, but you don’t point this out.

“And your mother looks down on me.”

You remain silent.

“Look at me.”

You lift your eyes.

“Don’t I provide for you?”

You lick dry lips. “Yes.”

“Don’t I give you everything you could ever want?”

“Yes.”

“Am I not good enough for you?”

“You’re more than enough.”

He stares at you. “Then say it.”

“I love you.”

***

You join the queue at the bakery, inhale the yeasty aroma.

Three women sit at a table for four. They sip frothy coffees and share gossip. You

remember what that’s like, the camaraderie of friendship, the intimacy of exchange.

There are no free tables. You wonder if you could buy a drink, ask to join them.

Pretend that you belong for a while.

Forget-me-not, you want to tell them. Myosotis sylvatica.

You reach the front of the queue, ask for the loaf, examine the drinks menu. Flat

white, you are about to tell the young man. But a small commotion draws your attention back to the table. The women are standing, kissing cheeks, promising to meet again soon.

“Anything else?”

You turn back to the server, shake your head.

***

You will pack lightly. Return to your childhood home.

There will be tears, anger. At him, not you. The police will be called. He’ll be

questioned, held accountable. You can show them the fresh bruises between your thighs.

But he calls the office, says he’s sick, spends the day watching you with hooded eyes.

How did you know? You wonder. How did you know?

***

You lose track of days and nights. Your world is small, your isolation total. From

eight to six, you live in silence, until the rain stops one afternoon and you can return to your garden. Now the birds sing to you. You almost smile.

Geraniums are re-potted. Pelargonium graveolens. You like the texture of the furry leaves, the earthy scent. Time becomes meaningless.

Until it isn’t.

***

You select a packet blindly and head to the counter. Your hand shakes as you tap your card on the reader. You don’t remember the journey home.

It’s awkward to hold the stick between your legs while you pee. You finish and place it next to the sink, then sit on the edge of the bath tub and stare at it until it reveals its secret.

Two lines. Pink. Anemone sylphide.

You lurch back to the toilet.

You’re still there when he returns. You push yourself up, fumble to hide the test at the back of a cupboard, swill some mouthwash.

“Where are you?”

You press the flush in response. Stare at the mirror as you wash your hands.

Who are you?

***

The lady’s voice is reassuring. “We’ll develop a plan with you, assign you a bed in

one of our refuges. You’ll be safe there.”

Safe.

When you disconnect the call, you pack minimally and pause to look out of the

kitchen window. Your garden is blooming. Perhaps the refuge will have a few flower beds you can nurture.

As you walk down the street, you do not look back.