Prohibition

Chapter 9

From the moment she left the club until she finally arrived back home and locked herself in her bedroom, Evelyn had tried to remain perfectly emotionless. Don't think, she had told herself. Don't remember. Don't feel. It hadn't worked. She knew she had appeared shocked, terrified, and probably half-crazy. Right now, Raymond was probably wondering what the hell was wrong with her. She just couldn't help it. The minute he had mentioned Charlie's name, her stomach had seethed nauseatingly, and her world had started closing in on her. For a split second after Raymond mentioned his name, her vision had tunneled, then gone black. Thankfully, she had managed to suppress the urge to faint.

Now, seated on the edge of her bathtub with icy water dripping down her face, melting away her ridiculous mask of makeup, she finally allowed herself to break down completely. Wave after wave of bitter tears streamed down her pale cheeks, combining stickily with wet powder, rouge and inky eye shadow to create a grotesque appearance. Shakily clutching the bathtub edge for support, Evelyn's whole body convulsed. Her chest felt constricted, as if a huge rock was pressing down on her, crushing her entire body. A terrible roaring rang in her ears.

In vain, she had tried to forget everything, had tried desperately to rise above it. And, in a way, she had. She had become strong—much stronger than she had ever dreamed she could be. With all the determination she never knew she possessed, she had clawed her way to the top, above everything that had tried so cruelly to drag her down. Like a boxer, staggering back up every time he gets knocked down to fight another match, Evelyn had looked defeat in the face again and again, and, in the end, had emerged triumphant—or so she had thought. No, she realized, self-loathing filling her heart and mind, so she had deceived herself into believing. She had thought she was strong. She had thought she was hard and cold. Now she realized she was just as weak and broken and fragile as ever—maybe even more so now. She had taken a chance, a stupid, idiotic chance, and it had broken everything she had worked so hard to build up around her. Now her soul was more fractured than ever.

Worthless. Pathetic. Stupid. Incompetent. Every day, she could still hear Charlie's voice callously degrading her. His tone was always so casual, so indifferent, as if he was simply telling her what he wanted for lunch, instead of stripping away every shred of her self-esteem word by word. And then he would smile saccharinely at her, while with calculating eyes he determined how much of her heart and soul he had managed to mutilate that day. He would tell her that no one else would ever love or want her, that no one else did  love her—only him. She could never leave him, for who else would ever care for her as he did? It was in those moments, that Evelyn wondered how she had ever fallen for him. What charm did he possess, that she remained so sedately trapped in his toxic web?

Had his eyes always been so cruel and calculating? Had his smile always been so maliciously amiable? No, Evelyn could remember a time once when Charlie's eyes had been friendly and open, and his smile warm and genuine—or so they had seemed. Perhaps his eyes had always been callous and sealed, and his smile a deceptive leer, and Evelyn had just been too giddy and infatuated to notice. What did it matter now, anyway? Her mistakes had been made and the consequences suffered. Lie after lie she had naively believed and abuse after abuse she had suffered quietly, never arguing, never fighting back until, finally, she broke completely.

Even now, she had no idea what reason she had ever given Charlie to hate her. In all their time together, she had only ever been what he wanted her to be. He wanted a flapper, and she became a flapper. Ignoring her father's disapproval, she took shears to her thick, waist-length hair and sobbed forlornly as she watched the coal-black locks pile up around her feet. Every day, she painted her face and forced a sensual smile, as her unrecognizable, mask-like image gazed back hollowly at her from her bedroom mirror. Bidding a sorrowful goodbye to her favorite books, she attended the cinema daily—often to watch the same meaningless, erotic picture as the day before—and was chauffeured to and fro in Charlie's fire engine red Cadillac, so speedy it made her carsick. At night, instead of spending quiet, comfortable evenings at home, she and Charlie roared around town, attending all the most popular parties and visiting all the most glamorous speakeasies and clubs. She positively loathed the modern dances, but Charlie adored them, and so she danced the Charleston and the Black Bottom and every other one of the stupid, frivolous dances that all the college scene loved.

Yes, she had given Charlie everything—her heart, her soul, her mind...even her virginity, something that haunted her more with every passing day. But he had wanted that too, and, like everything else that he wanted, she gave it to him. If only she had been strong enough to resist him! But he had ignored her fears and protests, promising her that what he could give her would fulfill her beyond her wildest dreams. It had all been a lie. Giving herself to Charlie had been nothing but painful—mentally and physically. After that dreadful night, she had vowed never to give herself to him again. But Charlie soon coerced her into it again...and again, and again. Yes, she had truly given him everything. And in return he had given her lies and cruelty and degradation.

Now he was back at it again: lying, manipulating, playing the traumatized victim and portraying Evelyn as the she-devil. She should have known she would never be free of him, should have known that the second she found a chance at new happiness, Charlie would find a way to destroy it. She had taken a chance in Raymond, a chance at a new love and a new life. She could never have imagined the shitstorm that her involvement to him would bring. Oh, how she should have known.

She should have known Charlie would not be content with just hurting her, now he wanted to hurt Raymond too—Raymond who, despite all his flaws and foolishness and petty jealousies, was a genuinely good man. Raymond, who was guileless and as easy to read as one of her novels. Of course, she thought bitterly, he had played right into Charlie's cunning hands. No doubt, Charlie had fabricated some cock-and-bull story of how hung up she was on him, languishing and lonely for want of his love But, what did it really matter exactly what he had said? The damage had been done.

You have to go on  she ordered herself. She had come too far and accomplished too much to let herself be thrown to the ground once more. Determination filling her soul, Evelyn stood shakily and began to clean away the final traces of her makeup. Good God, how old she looked! Old and weary and completely done with life—a reflection of her shattered soul, she supposed. Being with Charlie had aged her a thousand years, breaking free of him had added a thousand more. And, with tonight's anguish, a few hundred more years had spun by.

Stop, she told herself firmly. Don't think about that now.

Carefully extricating her garnet hair comb, Evelyn loosed her hair from its smooth chignon and watched as it flowed around her shoulders in long, wild waves. Gone now was her oh-so-fashionable frizzy and horribly unattractive cropped hair. Since the day she had split with Charlie, she had been growing it back out. It wasn't waist length yet—not even close—but it was getting there, thick and glossy and beautiful. And with every inch that returned, a bit more of her true self returned as well.

Squaring her shoulders, she exited her bathroom, walked over to her closet, and riffled through it. Her heather-colored day dress—a gown Charlie had particularly hated for its old-fashioned, conservative style—would do nicely for tomorrow's activities she decided. And her sturdy white and gray Oxfords—or 'those damn clunkers' as Charlie had often referred to them—would accompany it perfectly. Finally, Evelyn laid her sable-trimmed, navy-blue coat and matching cloche hat at the edge of her bed.

She would  be going out tomorrow, no doubt about it. Charlie might be able to dash her hopes of finding new happiness, drive all her friends away, and make her feel like shit, but never again would he force her into the shadows. Never again would he twist her into something—or somebody—that she loathed with a passion. And never again would he make her feel worthless.

No, Evelyn promised herself, tentative hope filling her heart, she was not  worthless. She was strong. She was smart. She was steadfast. And, most of all, she was a survivor.