Lost Apostrophe – the Diary of a Writing Group
by Rosalie Warren
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: EPISODE THREE: January 2015 – Rebecca Moore
Swearwords: None.
Description: EPISODE THREE: January 2015 – Rebecca Moore
He’s gone. Another of his overseas trips. I used to hate it when he left, but the last couple of times I’ve had almost a sense of relief. What does that say about us, our relationship?
This is hard to say, but I need to be honest with myself. It’s time I faced up to the truth. He doesn’t love me any more. I wonder whether he ever did. He can’t have, can he? Love can’t die as quickly as that. It’s taken mine nearly three years. His, if it ever existed, lasted about three days. Less than that.
Why did he marry me, if not for love? I have no idea.
I wish we had never met. Or, given that we did, I wish I’d got out while I could. While I could still work. Earn my living. While I wasn’t dependent on him for everything.
I could go now. I could go home to my parents. Could swallow my pride, admit defeat. Try to reclaim myself, to start again. Except I know it would never work, because I don’t have a self to reclaim. Not anymore. He has it – he has me – in the palm of his hand, to squeeze and crunch as he pleases.
The baby… thank God the baby never was. Though I can’t help wondering sometimes… if the baby had been a baby, would things have been different? Would he have… softened?
I shouldn’t be writing this. He’s on his way to the airport but he’s looking over my shoulder, too. He never leaves me, not for a second. He’s taken up residence in my brain. I see everything through his eyes, through the filter of him. Of Sam.
I see myself through his eyes. Weak, despicable, mawngy – that word he’s so fond of that no one outside our home town, Wakefield, seems to understand. Small, stunted, runty. Stupid, ignorant, thick, slow. Dripping with emotion. Self-centred. Cowardly. Shy, socially inept. And corrupt. Corrupted by jealousy, by wanting to be him, tall and fair and monster-toothed, admired by all. Wanted by women, by beautiful women, yet stuck with me. Now I’m feeling sick again. I don’t need to use my fingers anymore; the food regurgitates all by itself. Whatever I eat, I think of him and back it comes. Except when he’s there and it stays down, because I could never throw up in his presence.
In this acidic, bilious mess is my self-hatred, yet I can never purge myself of all of it; my body just makes more.
That tall blond woman he talks about, the one who’s always messaging him on Facebook. Honey. Does he meet her, on his trips? Do they…?
I don’t even care whether he does or not. I don’t care because I’m beyond caring. The fact that he wants to, and I know he does, I can see it in his eyes when he says her name – that’s enough.
He tells me he’s faithful to his marriage vows, however hard it is.
I don’t want him to be. I want him to leave me. I’d rather have that than this.
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I’m going to the writing group tonight, even though he’s not here. I want to prove I can do it on my own. I want to talk to people – to try to, anyway – without him watching me, without that sneer of his hovering. Except, of course, that it will still be hovering. But perhaps if I ignore it. Perhaps one of them will see me. Perhaps I’ll be able to say a few words.
-----------
It was awful. I found I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even look them in the eye. Katy and Eva both asked how I was, but all I could say was, ‘OK, thanks.’ I didn’t even ask them how they were, in return. Now they’ll hate me even more. Sam’s right – I’m a self-centred bitch.
There was a new person there – one of these cool, collected, experienced-looking women, middle-aged but well-preserved. She writes and publishes her own books. I tried to imagine being like that, in fifteen or twenty years’ time. On my own, as she obviously is, making a go of things. Could I ever do that?
No, because I’m me, I’m stupid Becca. Becca with a good degree from a very good university… who once had all these plans. Who was never exactly self-confident, but who knew she could achieve things if she tried. Who was never exactly beautiful but who thought she looked OK, was happy enough with her body and her face. Who liked the things she liked, without someone telling her she was stupid and ridiculous. Before she met and married the man she thought she loved (did love – I did love him – I loved the person I thought he was), who turned out to be…
… Well, whatever he is. Sam the entrepreneur and babe magnet. Sam the charmer. Sam the brilliant. Sam who pays my bills and despairs of me but says he will never leave me, because I’m weak and ill and needs his care, but who makes it clear how much admiration he gets every day and how many temptations he resists for me.
Can it be true? Yes, it can – you’ve only to look at him, and then at me. My horrible figure, my vile face. My spots, my tummy, my short legs and funny knees. He said the other day he married me for my sense of humour but that he must have imagined it because I haven’t got one now. He’s right – I haven’t. It’s vanished, if it was ever there. As has my ability to write – or even to speak, as shown by my recent behaviour in shops and at the writing group last night. And the fact that I’m off work sick because I can’t even manage to be an office dogsbody anymore.
I keep catching sight of my reflection in my laptop screen as I type. He’s right, I’m ugly. Really unpleasant to look at. It explains why people smile at each other but only ever seem to frown at me. It explains why I’ve lost touch with all my friends and even Mum and Dad don’t seem to care about me any more. Perhaps they never did. I thought I had people who loved me but it’s beginning to look as though it was all in my imagination. People have known for a long time how horrible I am; it was only me who couldn’t see it. Now I’ve seen how people react to him, a normal person, I can compare. I can see how much is wrong with me.
Because I’m not nice, I’m really not. If I made a list of all the awful things I’ve done in my life so far…
Perhaps I am not just useless, ugly and stupid, but actually evil. Could that be true? It might be. I might, without knowing it, be causing bad things to happen to people around me. Like Granny’s cancer. Oh God, please no…
But… no, that doesn’t make sense. I’m not evil. I don’t wish bad things on people. Do I? I was pleased when Jenna broke up with Adam – secretly pleased, though I pretended to care. That’s pretty horrible. And there’s my jealousy, my horrible, vile, bitter jealousy, mainly of him, of course, but sometimes of others too. He told me that was evil. He believes in evil as an actual force – it comes from his upbringing in that evangelical church. He even suggested I might need ‘treatment’ of some kind. I’ve no idea what he meant. I don’t want to know.
Surely not even Sam would believe that I’m possessed by a demon or something like that?
He said once that he likes it when I cry. He likes making me cry and then comforting me with sex.
Did he really say that? Or did I imagine it? He would never admit, would he, to – what do you call it… sadism? Is that what it is? Psychological sadism? Is that a thing?
If he had any idea what I was writing... I must keep reminding myself – he can’t see this. There’s no way he can see what’s on my screen. When I’ve finished, I’ll print it out and hide it and then delete the file. If he reads this, I can’t even imagine what he might do to me.
This is hard to say, but I need to be honest with myself. It’s time I faced up to the truth. He doesn’t love me any more. I wonder whether he ever did. He can’t have, can he? Love can’t die as quickly as that. It’s taken mine nearly three years. His, if it ever existed, lasted about three days. Less than that.
Why did he marry me, if not for love? I have no idea.
I wish we had never met. Or, given that we did, I wish I’d got out while I could. While I could still work. Earn my living. While I wasn’t dependent on him for everything.
I could go now. I could go home to my parents. Could swallow my pride, admit defeat. Try to reclaim myself, to start again. Except I know it would never work, because I don’t have a self to reclaim. Not anymore. He has it – he has me – in the palm of his hand, to squeeze and crunch as he pleases.
The baby… thank God the baby never was. Though I can’t help wondering sometimes… if the baby had been a baby, would things have been different? Would he have… softened?
I shouldn’t be writing this. He’s on his way to the airport but he’s looking over my shoulder, too. He never leaves me, not for a second. He’s taken up residence in my brain. I see everything through his eyes, through the filter of him. Of Sam.
I see myself through his eyes. Weak, despicable, mawngy – that word he’s so fond of that no one outside our home town, Wakefield, seems to understand. Small, stunted, runty. Stupid, ignorant, thick, slow. Dripping with emotion. Self-centred. Cowardly. Shy, socially inept. And corrupt. Corrupted by jealousy, by wanting to be him, tall and fair and monster-toothed, admired by all. Wanted by women, by beautiful women, yet stuck with me. Now I’m feeling sick again. I don’t need to use my fingers anymore; the food regurgitates all by itself. Whatever I eat, I think of him and back it comes. Except when he’s there and it stays down, because I could never throw up in his presence.
In this acidic, bilious mess is my self-hatred, yet I can never purge myself of all of it; my body just makes more.
That tall blond woman he talks about, the one who’s always messaging him on Facebook. Honey. Does he meet her, on his trips? Do they…?
I don’t even care whether he does or not. I don’t care because I’m beyond caring. The fact that he wants to, and I know he does, I can see it in his eyes when he says her name – that’s enough.
He tells me he’s faithful to his marriage vows, however hard it is.
I don’t want him to be. I want him to leave me. I’d rather have that than this.
----------
I’m going to the writing group tonight, even though he’s not here. I want to prove I can do it on my own. I want to talk to people – to try to, anyway – without him watching me, without that sneer of his hovering. Except, of course, that it will still be hovering. But perhaps if I ignore it. Perhaps one of them will see me. Perhaps I’ll be able to say a few words.
-----------
It was awful. I found I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even look them in the eye. Katy and Eva both asked how I was, but all I could say was, ‘OK, thanks.’ I didn’t even ask them how they were, in return. Now they’ll hate me even more. Sam’s right – I’m a self-centred bitch.
There was a new person there – one of these cool, collected, experienced-looking women, middle-aged but well-preserved. She writes and publishes her own books. I tried to imagine being like that, in fifteen or twenty years’ time. On my own, as she obviously is, making a go of things. Could I ever do that?
No, because I’m me, I’m stupid Becca. Becca with a good degree from a very good university… who once had all these plans. Who was never exactly self-confident, but who knew she could achieve things if she tried. Who was never exactly beautiful but who thought she looked OK, was happy enough with her body and her face. Who liked the things she liked, without someone telling her she was stupid and ridiculous. Before she met and married the man she thought she loved (did love – I did love him – I loved the person I thought he was), who turned out to be…
… Well, whatever he is. Sam the entrepreneur and babe magnet. Sam the charmer. Sam the brilliant. Sam who pays my bills and despairs of me but says he will never leave me, because I’m weak and ill and needs his care, but who makes it clear how much admiration he gets every day and how many temptations he resists for me.
Can it be true? Yes, it can – you’ve only to look at him, and then at me. My horrible figure, my vile face. My spots, my tummy, my short legs and funny knees. He said the other day he married me for my sense of humour but that he must have imagined it because I haven’t got one now. He’s right – I haven’t. It’s vanished, if it was ever there. As has my ability to write – or even to speak, as shown by my recent behaviour in shops and at the writing group last night. And the fact that I’m off work sick because I can’t even manage to be an office dogsbody anymore.
I keep catching sight of my reflection in my laptop screen as I type. He’s right, I’m ugly. Really unpleasant to look at. It explains why people smile at each other but only ever seem to frown at me. It explains why I’ve lost touch with all my friends and even Mum and Dad don’t seem to care about me any more. Perhaps they never did. I thought I had people who loved me but it’s beginning to look as though it was all in my imagination. People have known for a long time how horrible I am; it was only me who couldn’t see it. Now I’ve seen how people react to him, a normal person, I can compare. I can see how much is wrong with me.
Because I’m not nice, I’m really not. If I made a list of all the awful things I’ve done in my life so far…
Perhaps I am not just useless, ugly and stupid, but actually evil. Could that be true? It might be. I might, without knowing it, be causing bad things to happen to people around me. Like Granny’s cancer. Oh God, please no…
But… no, that doesn’t make sense. I’m not evil. I don’t wish bad things on people. Do I? I was pleased when Jenna broke up with Adam – secretly pleased, though I pretended to care. That’s pretty horrible. And there’s my jealousy, my horrible, vile, bitter jealousy, mainly of him, of course, but sometimes of others too. He told me that was evil. He believes in evil as an actual force – it comes from his upbringing in that evangelical church. He even suggested I might need ‘treatment’ of some kind. I’ve no idea what he meant. I don’t want to know.
Surely not even Sam would believe that I’m possessed by a demon or something like that?
He said once that he likes it when I cry. He likes making me cry and then comforting me with sex.
Did he really say that? Or did I imagine it? He would never admit, would he, to – what do you call it… sadism? Is that what it is? Psychological sadism? Is that a thing?
If he had any idea what I was writing... I must keep reminding myself – he can’t see this. There’s no way he can see what’s on my screen. When I’ve finished, I’ll print it out and hide it and then delete the file. If he reads this, I can’t even imagine what he might do to me.
About the Author
Rosalie Warren was once a university lecturer, specialising in Artificial Intelligence and Natural Language Processing. But her earliest love was books and stories, and since taking early retirement ten years ago she has been following her dream of writing and publishing. For details of her publications for adults and children, including science fiction and romantic suspense, see http://srg521.wix.com/mybooks and https://www.facebook.com/RosalieWarrenAuthor/
Rosalie has been an exile from Scotland for the past fourteen years, but still has many happy memories of the wonderful city of Edinburgh, where her children were born and raised, and of the equally amazing Dundee, where she worked for a further three years. Going back even further, she was born and brought up in Yorkshire, and regularly returns there to visit a seaside place not so very different from the town of Castlehaven in her serial.
Rosalie is also a qualified proofreader and editor and (under the name Sheila Glasbey) her editing services can be found at http://www.affordable-editing.com/
Rosalie has been an exile from Scotland for the past fourteen years, but still has many happy memories of the wonderful city of Edinburgh, where her children were born and raised, and of the equally amazing Dundee, where she worked for a further three years. Going back even further, she was born and brought up in Yorkshire, and regularly returns there to visit a seaside place not so very different from the town of Castlehaven in her serial.
Rosalie is also a qualified proofreader and editor and (under the name Sheila Glasbey) her editing services can be found at http://www.affordable-editing.com/