Isabelle

She kept it bottled up inside. Surely, the display of emotion was a weakness which she could not afford? Her name was Isabelle. She used to like the name, back when she was ‘innocent’ and unspoilt – back before her father had died, and before her mother had become lost in an all-consuming alcoholic haze. That was when her mother had met Kenny – a social health worker. He was the bane of her short life, and she hated him with a passion which made her feel sick to the very core of her being. It made her feel dirty and spoiled. It made her feel cold. It made her feel like an icy fist had reached up from oblivion and wrapped its freezing fingers around her heart, and every now and then it would squeeze and twist, just to spite her.1

It would twist whenever she saw those girls – those popular girls laughing, giggling and joking about their oh-so-trivial, normal lives. It would twist whenever she saw those same girls flirting with the guys from the football team. Oh, how she hated them. How she wanted to be them. She wanted to lead a trivial, innocent, average, normal life, ignorant and free of all the pain and the hurt which she had endured since Kenny had invaded her life.2

She had tried to pretend that it wasn’t happening. To block out the pain, she had resorted to the knife. She would run it along her wrist, each cut closer to the vein, each cut deeper than the last. She didn’t cut herself for attention. Attention was the last thing she wanted. Her reality was already fragile enough as it was. She loved her mother dearly, as she was the only family that she had left, and if it weren’t for her then she would be all alone. No. The last thing she needed was for more strangers to come into her already convoluted life and start splitting her and her mother up. Besides, Kenny said he would do terrible things if she ever told anyone. She found that the physical pain of the blade cutting into her tender flesh was easier to deal with than the emotional torture which coursed through her body like a storm, blazing in a conflagration of self-loathing and despair.3

Despite her misfortunes, Isabelle was a pretty girl. She had long, black hair which flowed past her shoulders, contrasting vividly against the striking paleness of her skin. She had full, soft lips, and her ancient, yet young brown eyes struck forth like an accusation from the sharp and chiselled angles of her face. She had a strong jaw-line and pronounced cheekbones, giving her an aquiline look. Her nose was not beak-like, however; it was turned up slightly at the end, and was speckled with a bunch of light-brown freckles – the only ones brave enough to venture onto her face. Isabelle was a quiet girl, at the age of fifteen.4

By looking at her from afar, you wouldn’t think that there was anything wrong – unless you were sharper than most that is. Kenny was careful only to hit her on the body, and she kept those bruises covered up as best she could. The internal bruises were invisible, anyway. She wore bracelets to cover the marks on her wrists. She seemed like a figure of stone, and no one could get close to her. No one knew the real her. In fact, it was entirely possible that even she did not know who the real her was. She was confused inside; lonely and angry, and the anger was of the worst kind – the implosive kind, as she was careful to let none of it show. She hated the memories inside of her mind, and she hated the feelings which they provoked, and in turn she hated herself for feeling them. It was a long time since she had cried. Her eyes had just seemed to dry up one day and something inside of her had come into being. It was the wall which had solidified out of all of the hated emotions which had been swirling around her heart.5

It had started to form on that first night when Kenny had come to her room with sinister intent when she was eleven. She had tried to pretend that it wasn’t happening, that his rough and clammy hands weren’t touching her where they shouldn’t. She had been frozen by a visceral terror so strong that she hadn’t even been able to cry out, let alone resist. It appalled her that she hadn’t resisted. She hated herself and felt a burning shame that she hadn’t fought back. That night had taken away any faint hope that she’d ever had of a normal life.6

This wall that had come into being had made it seem as though her emotions and her face had no real connection at all. But that didn’t mean she felt nothing. She did feel less, though; because of the wall. Most emotions had become numbed over time until only the burning hatred, and the shame which taunted her remained. And so it was that no one really understood her. She ended up pushing people away, even if she didn’t do it on purpose. A little bit of her internal resentment would find expression in her voice when she spoke, and so it repelled others. It was something over which she had no control. But she couldn’t go on like this. She couldn’t keep all of this emotion bottled up inside of her forever. No one could. It would have to find release, or it would destroy her. It would have to explode.7

* * *8

Isabelle trudged into school again, and felt the familiar stares of half-curious, half-disdainful eyes on her back. Kenny had left her alone for three days now, and the bruises had faded enough for her to come into school. It was getting worse. He hadn’t restricted the blows to her body this time.9

School was a kind of alternate hell for Isabelle. It meant that she had a variety, a choice of torture. How lucky she was. It was a temporary escape from the clutches of her abuser, but only into another cold and lonely environment in which she was forced to learn things that held no real interest to her. The only subject that she really liked was art. Art was an expression of the soul, and allowed her to engage in a kind of spiritual catharsis. Understandably, her paintings and drawings were always of a twisted sort, but they allowed her to take some of the negativity bubbling away inside of her, and to turn it into something worthwhile.10

She loved to draw and paint dark things out of myth and legend, such as werewolves and vampires. Her best work was a drawing of a vampire feasting on the blood of a sleeping innocent. Perhaps she had put so much effort and care into this drawing because she felt that she could relate to it. The vampire was corrupting and defiling something pure and chaste. It had come out of the unknown, and in the dead of night, it had stolen something precious. It was not that Isabelle thought this through consciously, however. As far as she was concerned, innocence was a passing thing, and was easily thrown away. It was perhaps a reflection of the world that she lived in that such scepticism was present in one so young. Isabelle didn’t really know how she made it through each school day. She just tried to block out her surroundings and do the bare minimum of work.11

But the days passed by slowly, and something inside of her began to change. She was no ordinary girl, and something had begun to awaken inside of her – a hidden reserve of strength. She was growing, physically and mentally, and it was not her fault that her life had been marred so, by the misfortunes of another, and a part of her was beginning to realise this. A part of her was beginning to question her passivity. She was turning into a young woman, and had begun to feel that she should stand up for herself. Didn’t she owe herself that much? And so, little chinks began to appear in her hitherto seemingly invincible armour. The fist began to release its grip, and cracks began to appear in the wall. She began to experience something new and strange, as though it were a light shining in the distance.12

This new anomaly was hope.13

It was a shining cynosure in the darkness of doubt and fear which had possessed her for so long, and it was the weapon that she would use to destroy her oppressor. Oh, how she wanted to hurt him. How she wanted to repay every second of torment which he had burdened her with, and more.14

The pain in her hand snapped her out of her reverie, and she realised that her fists had been clenched so tightly that the fingernails had dug into the flesh. The bell was ringing, so she ignored the blood as she packed her things away and headed for the door. She closed her eyes and touched her eyelids with her fingertips, pushing in the eyeballs gently. She stroked the long, black lashes as violent thoughts ran through her mind; thoughts of what she would do to Kenny if he tried to touch her again. She began to formulate a plan as she walked along the familiar streets on her way home, in a world of her own.15

She walked casually up to the old green wooden door which marked the entrance to her home, took the key out of her pocket and slotted it into the lock. She turned it mechanically and pushed down on the handle, swinging the door open slowly with a prolonged creak. After a few steps, the smell of alcohol hit her. Her dear mother had been drinking again. No surprise there. She walked through the hall with the peeling yellow wallpaper and through the door at the end. On the old maroon couch lay sprawled the form of her mother, an empty bottle of cheap wine clutched in her hands.16

She had straggly limp, blondish grey hair which came down to her jaw line, and sunken, pale skin. She had a kind-looking face, and had been such a loving person before the accident had changed their lives forever. Isabelle shrugged the bad memories off with an effort as she prized the bottle away from her mother’s hands and laid it on the floor, then took the blanket from the opposite armchair and laid it over her. She looked peaceful, lying there. It was a pity that alcohol was the only thing with the power to blot out her reality.17

Isabelle wiped away the tear which was rolling almost guiltily down her cheek, and retreated silently to her room. Kenny would be home from work soon, and she wanted to be ready for him. Emotionally, it wasn’t easy to kill someone. It wasn’t easy to take a life away no matter what they person may have done to you.18

She went to the kitchen and took the longest, sharpest knife out of the utensils draw and returned to her room, where she laid it on the desk and stared at it. So much for a plan, she thought. Just stick this in him a few times and watch the blood flow.19

She sat at her desk and stayed there as if in a trance, staring at the knife for a long time. What seemed like an eternity passed before she jumped at the familiar sound of a tapping at the door, accompanied by the heavy, excited breathing which she abhorred. “Isabelle? Are you there, Isabelle? Daddy’s home, Isabelle.” The words sent a shiver of disgust down her spine, and her lips curled in revulsion. She jumped up and snatched the knife off the desk and faced the door, holding it behind her back as she retreated towards the corner of the room. Her breathing quickened and her pulse accelerated. She could feel her heart fluttering like a bird inside her chest, and her eyes stung as they glanced fearfully around the darkened room.20

The old terror began to consume her. It began to freeze her on the spot. But she fought with the strength of desperation, and was rewarded with a spark of courage as the form of Kenny began to slip into the room.21

She regarded him with mute dread.22

He was a squat, fat man with small, slanted black eyes like those of a pig’s. His face resembled a rodent’s to her, with a small mouth and a large, pointy nose. His pink forehead gleamed with sweat and his eyes never left her as he made his way slowly but surely towards her. His fat, soft, hairy hands with their stubby little fingers were fiddling with each other nervously, incessantly. The memory of those horrible hands sent a wave of disgust and repugnance surging through her body. Never again.23

Kenny fumbled and shuffled his way towards her, playing with his lardy fingers all the while, and licking his lips whilst watching her with a strange kind of wince to the corners of his small eyes. Her stare flicked to his armpits and saw that the sides of his shirt were drenched with sweat. She tightened the grip on the knife, and noticed that the handle was also soaked in her own perspiration. Time stood still while Kenny advanced towards her, muttering and crooning perversely, half to his self and half to her. 24

Somewhere in the dim recesses of his mind, no doubt, he knew that what he was doing was wrong, but this façade which he maintained allowed him to pretend that he was a loving father about to comfort his daughter. She saw all of this in his eyes. She pierced his soul, there and then, and he became transparent to her – the pathetic story that was him. He was the end result of a tragic tale, and she was the sequel.25

This realisation hit her like a thunderclap, and provided the emotional blind frenzy which made murder possible, and she moaned in denial and despair at the burden which Fate had elected for her to bear. Kenny was within striking distance now, and as he reached out to caress her, she lashed out violently, transferring all of her suppressed hatred, loathing and revulsion into that single slash, and by chance or by design, the edge of the knife drew a deep and long gash across the artery of his left wrist, which began to gush a darkened crimson.26

Kenny yelped like a dog, his face contorted in shock, and threw himself bodily backwards, tripping over his own feet and hitting his head on the corner of the desk, knocking him self unconscious. Isabelle stood there like a statue, regarding his prostrate form, blood pouring from his wrist and soaking steadily into the carpet. She looked down and saw the knife in her hand, glistening red, and dropped it in horror. It landed upon the carpet with a thud like an anticlimax.27

Conflicting thoughts began to clash through her mind. He looked so pathetic, lying there with his life-blood flowing out onto the rug. And yet he was her abuser, her tormentor – why should she care? She stood there frozen by indecision, as conscience fought with vengeance inside of her, and it was by no means clear who the victor would be. She remembered his clammy hands all over her body, his flat lips on hers. She remembered him being inside of her, and the pure horror which it invoked. She remembered the feeling of violation, of desecration, of something irreplaceable being stolen. But then, she remembered what she had seen in his eyes – a lifetime of inadequacies, of cowardice and of self-loathing. Decades of mediocrity, of unfulfilled potential and of unacknowledged shame – a shame so deep that it would drown him entirely if it were ever to be released.28

And then, it struck her in its complete, hideous and ugly truth – if she were to strike him down now, in vengeance and in wrath, then she would merely become a part of the cycle which had consumed this man lying there, prostrate and pathetic, in front of her. With a monumental effort, Isabelle calmed her breathing and the beating of her heart. She wiped her eyes and went to fetch a bandage from the bathroom cabinet. Going past the mirror, she caught a glimpse of herself and lurched to a halt. It struck her, then – she was beautiful, and she always had been. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her hair was in frantic disarray, but she was still incredibly beautiful. She was an emotional mess, yes. But inside of her was the potential to forgive and to move on, and to transcend the misfortunes of another victim of society, and of the human gene. She stood there, laughing and crying silently in unison for a little while, before she remembered the dying man lying in her bedroom.29

Hurrying back, she bound the gash extremely tightly to stop the flow of blood, and went to the telephone. First, she would call the police, and then an ambulance. Perhaps then, the long process of healing could begin in earnest.30