Repressed, Depressed and Possessed - (Ruth Harris Series)

Chapter 16

'Stay still, Ruth.' I had been flinching and grimacing every time Mama's warm, wet cloth dabbed at my wrist. There were five circular bruises spaced out around it, every shade of the autumn leaves outside. Some of them were beside bleeding scratches, and small, skin-coloured lumps.
'It hurts.' I whispered.
'I know. I'm sorry.' Mama had tears in her eyes. 'I should have come down sooner -'
'It's alright, Mama.' I sighed. 'I got him pretty good too.' I smiled my signature, frail smile.
               Mama looked up at me, revealing the depth of sadness and guilt in her eyes.
'Ruth, I should call the police.'
'Don't do that.'
'What?'
'Mama, I know what you're thinking. This doesn't prove anything about what happened in June. I started it tonight. Mike isn't a violent person.' The words were spilling out of me as if I had a clue what had happened.
'Are you serious!? Ruth -'
'Mama, please. Just leave it alone.'
'I can't! Mike hurt you!'
'And I hurt him! First! He's never hurt me before, I know it. Just because I don't remember what happened in June, it doesn't mean he did it. It wouldn't even make sense! He hasn't laid a finger on me until today -'
'That you remember.' Mama returned to softly dabbing at my wrist so I wouldn't see the tears fall from her eyes.
'What is that supposed to mean?' I gulped. 'I never dissociate for more than a day or two, and you haven't seen me with any bruises or marks that I may have forgotten about!'
'Alright, just calm down. I'm not trying to upset you, I...I'm just worried.'
'Well I'm not.' I stated. 'Mike didn't try and hurt me today. He was just defending himself.'
'But you don't remember much of what happened after - oh, that reminds me. Let me see your neck. Here, lean over the bed.' Mama gave me room to lie on my bed as she examined the cuts on the back of my neck. Her breathing went quiet as she tried not to upset us both.
'I know I don't remember everything, Mama. But I do remember hitting him before he grabbed my wrist. I deserved it.'
'Don't you dare say that! No lady deserves to be manhandled.'
'Neither does a man! Why won't you just admit I was out of line?'
'Why does it matter?'
'Because!'
               I sat back up to face her. 'I was out of line! I've never been violent to another person before. Well, not really.'
'Okay...but every woman slaps a man at some point in her life.' Mama said. 'It's our right. We either slap them or throw our drinks over them when they're out of line. Haven't you watched a film before?' She tried to smile, then sighed. 'You're not violent, Ruth, we both know that. I'm just thinking that maybe Mike deserved it. You didn't.'
'How can you say that!? You know Mike -'
'I know a man who wants to impress his girlfriend's mama so he can come over here a lot and stay out of his own flat. I also know the man has a mental disorder! And on more than one occasion he's woken up in the night thinking you were an Iranian soldier trying to kill him!'
'That's not fair on him, Mama. I'm crazy too -'
'Lie back down, I'm not done.' Mama said shortly. 'And you're not crazy.'
               I winced as she dabbed at the dry blood on the back of my neck. I clenched my fists but that only made my wrist burn.

I want to talk about that wrist for a minute. It sounds odd now, but my left wrist tells the story of my life.

I first cut into my left wrist when I was ten. I remember getting the idea from a film Bertie was watching in the living room. I don't remember what it was now, but I can still see the woman's pale arm on the screen with blood pouring down the side of it. At first it had scared me. I was always a squeamish kid - Andy and Hunter loved to take advantage of it. They would lead me down 'shortcuts' on the way home from school because they had found a dead mouse there the day before, or Andy would chuck his tissues at me after having a nose bleed...the list goes on. It was all done in the name of fun and friendship, but growing up with two boys was hard work. The main thing I kept in mind was that they were just troublemakers who meant no harm. Bertie, on the other hand, was the type of person to watch horror films in front of the children in his care, partly because he wanted to scare us, and partly because he would do what he wanted regardless of who was home. Such carelessness was his hamartia, eventually.