Minutes later Martina was picking herself up from the cold, unforgiving bathroom floor, wiping her face clear of smeared mascara, swilling her mouth to rid her tongue of the tang of him. Shaking she returned to the table and poured herself a large glass of wine from the blood red bottle in the centre, taking a heartening swig of the crimson liquid. She ate the rest of her salad in silence, a hardened look on her face, resolve stiffening with every warning glance that Jack shot at her over the place settings, past her mother’s ignorant eyes.
By the time they arrived home, her family high on the evening air with spirits rowdy from drink, Martina’s mind was made up. Never again. After all this time. Never, ever again. Her hands no longer shaking, mind stilled, she walked as though to death row, up to her room. There, methodically, mechanically she packed a bag, filling it with roughened items of clothing, musty and faded with age, anything that she could lay claim to as hers, and not his. Lastly she collected her lighter and a packet of cigarettes, pocketing them. Carefully she ran her fingers over the outline of the packet, feeling for her security. Delicately she crept towards her mother’s room. Winging a prayer to a god she had long since given up on, she checked the drawers.
As she searched she ran her hands over cloth, picking up one jumper and bringing it to her face, breathing her mother in. She found Lara’s makeup and perfumes and scented each wrist, as a reminder.
At last she found what she was looking for. For the second time that evening the girl muttered the word ‘Sorry,’ as she pocketed coin after coin, note after crisp note. Stuffing the money into various pockets she made her way downstairs, breathing hard, avoiding every creaking step.
In the living room her mother and step father sat watching the television, him gripping a whisky like a life raft, her mother nursing a glass of elegant white wine. Without so much as a goodbye, Martina closed the front door with a gasp and the snap of a lock and picked her way carefully down the gravel driveway. Once free of the property she turned to face the house. For a moment she stared, the bright beaming eyes of the building seeming to glare disapprovingly down at her. The brick walls were cold, unfeeling; she would find no sympathy there.
Turning she continued to walk, down one road, then another, then another, mile after mile unravelling behind her like a ribbon. After some time, when the only company Martina found were owls with their painful, piercing screeches, she reached the bus station. Settling her self in a seat with a sigh she waited for her future to unfold.
|