2015
Whitby, England

You know that wonderful feeling of contentment you get when you're in your own home? A familiar space where you can totally do you? A haven you can go to at the end of a hard day? Somewhere you can feel completely  safe?

I knew that feeling. I loved that feeling. But I didn't appreciate that feeling until it didn't exist anymore.

I'll never forget the day it started. Bernard and I were a year into our relationship, and we'd had a wonderful honeymoon period. He loved to make romantic gestures such as buy flowers, rustle up breakfast in bed or whisk us away on romantic weekends. He also tried really hard with Malcolm, my thirteen-year-old son: playing computer games with him, buying him presents, ferrying him home from after-school clubs. He took him to football practice of a weekend. I honestly thought I'd hit the jackpot after my first marriage had fallen apart.

About ten months into our whirlwind romance, we moved in together and things changed. The romance was the first to go as we fell into daily routines. He found having a teenage boy in the house an annoyance. Let's face it, he found me an annoyance. He worked hard all day as a police officer and would come home from a hard day on duty to find me there. In his eyes, I was there all the time. I only worked part time in a local café, so I always left after him in the mornings and arrived home before him of an evening. As he never saw me at work, his perception was that I never worked, and therefore he expected the house to be clean, the washing to be done and the dinner to be on the table. In reality, I maybe had two extra hours a day than he did, but Malcolm had special needs and required a lot of work to ensure he did his homework and was properly organised for school and his other activities.

Over the next couple of months I could see Bernard's frustration growing, and mine did too.

Jump to the evening everything changed...

His thick, stubby fingers wrapped around my throat as he shoved me against the kitchen cupboard. His dark brown eyes were ablaze and as wide as I'd ever seen them. There was no pain as the cupboard door handle plunged into my lower back on impact. It didn't even hurt my throat as he pressed on my windpipe. Loose strands of my hair caught in his grip but the pull on my scalp didn't register. The shock simply numbed me. After all the things I'd said to Bernard over the last couple of months, this was one of the less antagonistic.

"Your conversation was boring me."

But it was.

He had been talking to a colleague at our kitchen table about work stuff. They were eating fish and chips which they'd picked up on their way over, drinking lager from a can and putting the world to rights. This bothered me for many reasons.

One, his colleague was a beautiful woman. Yes, she was in her black police uniform which wasn't the most flattering, her black hair pulled back in a sensible bun, but her face had striking features, from her piercing green eyes to her full naturally pink lips. Cute and petite. A huge contrast to my tall lanky frame with my angular face and dark blonde hair. He knew I didn't like him having female friends after my previous relationship had ended in an affair.

Two, Malcolm and I hadn't had dinner, yet they had only bought fish and chips for themselves.

Three, we had agreed we didn't drink alcohol midweek, yet there they were on a Tuesday night with a four-pack on the table.

Four, Tuesday nights were when I went to Zumba. Malcolm didn't need a babysitter, but we had an unwritten agreement that Tuesday nights Bernard would be responsible for my son.

Five, Bernard was talking like he would with his force buddies, throwing abusive language around as if it were imperative to the English language. He knew I didn't like Malcolm being exposed to that kind of talk. He was a sensitive boy.

I stormed in and out of the room getting myself ready for my class, huffing and puffing in an attempt to show I wasn't happy with his behaviour. I caught him rolling his eyes at his beautiful colleague as I shoved past.

"Something up, love?" he finally asked in a higher-than-usual-pitched tone that suggested there shouldn't be. His jet black eyebrows raising so high they disappeared under his greying fringe.

I ignored him.

"I think it's probably time you left," he said to our unwanted guest.

"Sure. Thanks for the food. And lending an ear. Let's chat tomorrow instead."

Pretty little policewoman got up, nodded at me with a sympathetic smile and headed for the door. Good riddance.

Bernard came back into the kitchen once she'd gone. He didn't look happy. "What was that all about?"

And then I said it. "Your conversation was boring me."

And there we were, me in a throat-lock up against the work surface, a cupboard door handle pressed into my back, too shocked to say or feel anything.

Welcome to my new reality.

At the point at which I struggled to breathe, Bernard caught himself, loosening his grip and stepping back.

A cough. He turned side-on so as not to face me as he spoke. "I'm sorry, Christina. You're just so infuriating. It's been a tough day."

I nodded, inhaling through my nose, unable to say anything. I didn't move.

"Don't you have a class to get to?" His voice was soft but I could tell the anger was still there.

"Mmmhmm," I mumbled, afraid to open my mouth in case I cried.

"Go on then. Otherwise you'll be late and that'll be my fault."

I nodded again and hurried out of the room, refusing to let the tears fall.

Despite my ex-husband's complete disregard for our marriage vows, he'd never once raised a hand to me no matter how hard or often I pushed him. That feeling of safety I'd always had had been stripped away in a matter of seconds.

***

Zumba was a brilliant way to help me forget about the events of earlier that evening. I could dance and laugh and lose myself in the music and the steps; sweat out the unfelt pain. Laughing wasn't really part of the class, but Fran and I was so bad we'd always get the giggles. I was bad because of my long limbs, Fran was bad due to being about forty pounds overweight. We were a comical sight.

It was only at the end of class as we got ready to leave that my emotions finally burst through.

"Hey, what's up?" Fran asked, a tentative hand appeared on my shaking shoulder as I sobbed into my hands.

I could tell this was difficult for her; she was so emotionally stable that sobbing was not something she was good at dealing with.

I quickly pulled myself together. "It's nothing." I wiped my nose with the back of my hand. "Bernard and I, we had a row just before I came out so I'm a bit upset."

"That man," she said with a sigh. "You're always arguing these days."

"I... suppose." Was that the impression she had? Sure, we'd been struggling with cohabiting, but I hadn't considered we were always arguing. Her brief but insightful words made me question everything.

***

After the kitchen incident, and the day things changed, I walked on eggshells. Having been someone who always spoke her mind, I began to hold my tongue, afraid I would upset Bernard again. The incident was not mentioned, and I didn't change my affection towards him, but our time at home together was accompanied by low level anxiety on my part. I had no idea what he was feeling. Had he forgotten all about it? This event that occupied every waking moment for me; just a fleeting memory for him?

It took me a few weeks to feel normal again. But I shouldn't have let my guard down. I started allowing my comments to slip into our day-to-day life once more:

"I'm not your housemaid."

"You know where the kitchen is."

"Don't talk to Malcolm like that."

"I told you to be home before seven."

"You've been drinking/smoking again, haven't you?"

Minor frustrations that I should have kept to myself, but it wasn't in my nature.

Bernard snapped again.

And again.