Getting over Gabe

P R O L O G U E

P R O L O G U E

They took me away a few days after I told the Youth Worker what was going on. I hadn’t meant to, the words had just come out- I needed to tell someone. I didn’t understand why they forced me away really, I mean it wasn’t my Dad’s fault he didn’t know, because he was never around. But that was exactly why, they said, that they had to, because he should have known, and he shouldn’t have been away so much. I remember, I was sitting on the car, the seatbelt digging into my neck, and the little luggage I had was being put into the boot, as I stared out of the window. Dad was outside on the front steps, looking helpless, confused, but also resigned. And on the house next to ours, was Gabe, two policemen holding his arms, and forcing his head through the door of the police car, his foster parents standing in the door way, Peter looking helpless, and Anne crying. But I couldn’t bring myself to feel bad, because I had hinted so often at what was going on, tried so hard to let them know, often they weren’t even hints, I nearly outright told them what was happening, but they turned a blind eye, pretended they couldn’t see what was happening right in front of them so they wouldn’t have to deal with reality of what Gabe was doing.

Every one kept asking me whether or not I was going to press charges or not. In truth, I had no idea. The previous night Anne had begged me not to, she said Gabe had already been through so much, but I didn’t care, because I’d been through just as much, and Gabe had caused me so much pain. At the same time though, I was still scared of him, maybe even a little in love with him, even after all that had happened, and anyway I was sure that if I pressed charges his friends would come and get me. Just like they did the first and only time I tried to fight back. And I couldn’t go through that again.

And then suddenly my hands were shaking, and I could almost see his room around me, see his eyes looking at me. The memory was never just a memory. When I remembered it, it was like it was happening all over again. I could feel the same pain, and see the same things. That was why usually, when people tried to get me to talk about it, I clammed up. I could talk about pressing charges, and about what would happen if I did, I could talk about the court case, and what was happening now, but not what happened then, because it was like it was happening all over again. Why I could tell the Youth Worker I don’t know. I just needed to let it out. But then, as my vision clouded, I was almost certain I would never be able to remember in a detached way, I was sure that I would always have that place, somewhere, where all my memories were locked up, and I was sure that if I ever decided to go back there, the edges of the memories would still be just as sharp, just as painful as they were the day they were made. So as the memory engulfed me, I tried to fight, I did. But the memory won, and once again I was swept back to that night. The night he first hit me.

I told him everything. But he didn’t care. He said sorry in a detached sort of way, and when I asked him what for, he shrugged. I knew he meant he was sorry for what had happened, so why I asked I really don’t know. It’s just that he didn’t sound sorry. Or like he cared in the slightest. But that shrug, it hurt. I was saddened and a little annoyed by his behavior, I didn’t want masses of sympathy, I just wanted him to know, and I thought someone cared. I got up abruptly from his bed, picked up my bag and was about to leave, but when I told him I had to go he got up from the chair by the computer, and locked the door because he said I was being selfish. I just thought he’d understand after what I told him, but he didn’t seem to. And I believed him when he said I was selfish, because he said it in such a way that made me feel bad, and guilty, like it was all my fault he’d gone through what he had, even though he didn’t care about what had happened to me. I wanted so desperately to leave right then and there, but he wouldn’t let me, he wouldn’t move from in front of the door, even after reasoning with him for ten minutes, desperation slowly creeping up on me. But when he moved, it was locked and he had the keys. Hysteria gripped me, and I started screaming, shouting, begging, hitting him, the door. He told me to shut up but I didn’t because he wouldn’t let me go. I carried on shouting and screaming at him, banging and clawing at the door, and he just stood there. And then he got mad and he hit me and I didn’t understand why because I was just trying to leave, except I did because he didn’t want me to and he thought I was selfish. The thing was, when he slapped me, it didn’t hurt as much physically as it did emotionally, the sting and the red handprint on my face were fading within seconds, but I could still feel the emptiness long afterwards, see his cold, hard eyes staring at me afterwards with no regret or sadness, no guilt. Just resentment.

The next day at school he said that he was sorry, that it would never happen again, that he was just angry. But it did happen again, and each time he said the same things, that he loved me, that this time it would be different. But it never was, and he just carried on. I never tried to leave him either, maybe it was because I was afraid that then I’d have no one, or maybe I believed that no one else could ever love me, that I was lucky. Maybe it was because I was scared about what he and his friends would do to me if I left. I don’t really know. I fought back, once or twice, but what he did was always worse. I found myself having to come up with more and more excuses for the bruises, the limping; I found myself having to say I tripped and fell. In the beginning he wouldn’t touch me afterwards for days, would be extra nice, and would only hit me once in a while. But as time went on he’d start helping me cover them up, stop being apologetic. And he just carried on and on and on and on and on. And there was no escape and-

I was breathing heavily and I felt some hand grip my shoulders, shaking me. Pat, my social worker was there, looking at me worriedly, if a little judgmentally. I raked my hand through my hair in attempt to calm myself, and to drive the knots away, pushed her hands away from me a little rougher than I probably should have, and went back to starring out the window. I heard the driver’s door slam closed, and the car start, and watched as I left my old life behind. I’d never have to see any of them ever again if I didn’t want to. And I didn’t. I smiled, then, for the first time in what felt like forever.