Not that Woman by Heather Haigh

Heather Haigh

Heather D. Haigh is a multi-genre,disabled, working-class writer from Yorkshire and a survivor. She is published by Oxford Flash Fiction, Fictive Dream, Bath Flash Fiction, The Phare, and numerous others and has won or been placed in several competitions. She is Pushcart and BOTN nominated. #MeToo

Not That Woman

A nurse with gunmetal hair bags my clothes. Red blouse. Black skirt. Colours of a slag. Needle-thin heels. Asking for it. I lock my gaze on the wall clock, holding my breath and holding it and holding it. The rustle-crackle-snap of rubber or silicone or whatever it is they use. He. Didn't. Use. What will they find? Blood? Semen? Him, him, him, him, him. A snaggle-toothed comb yanks at my pubic hair. Never had that Brazilian, chickened out, too undignified. Ha, undignified. And still that second-hand sweeps at a crawl.

"Abrasions, 3 o'clock."

A lifetime later, I'm allowed to bathe. White tub. Sterile walls. Virginal soap. Off-white towels that have had the life rubbed out of them and a tap that won't stop drip-drip-drip-drip-drip-drip-drip-drip-dripping. Scrub-scrub-scrub. Scrubber. Scrubber. Soap that smells like antiseptic. It won't touch the stench seeping from my flesh. 

Another room for the final interview. A wall of chipped green paint, broken by a painting of a sunset over the ocean—an egg-yolk hole bleeding cayenne, bleeding aubergine, bleeding alizarin, carmine, crimson, red. Red. Soft couches. A well-worn rug on the floor. Voices carefully monitored, carefully measured, carefully controlled, probing voices, gently probing voices, insistently probing voices, and voices and probing and probing and voices and voices and words and words and words.

And finally—silence.

My phone's gone. Taken somewhere to be invaded, examined, inspected. I've been made decent in borrowed clothes—the trousers loose, a drawstring waist, the cotton top huge, baggy, long-sleeved. I'm swathed in beige. Like a sack. Sackcloth and ashes. That's what they tell me we're done. For now, it's over.

The locksmith's voice is deep. Harsh. Rough, like gravel, like heavyweight denim, like work hands, man hands, huge hands, strong hands, hands/hands/hands/hands/hands. I sense his mouth pressed to the phone as he takes my details. Hear his breath. Hot breath, vodka, nicotine/nicotine/nicotine. 

My best friend Susie agrees to come for coffee while the new locks are fitted. Her chat is fractured. Splintered. Faltering. She talks about last night's TV, yesterday's office gossip, the kids' football match. She speaks slowly with lots of pauses. Vetting her words. The black-out window blinds, I manage to fit myself.

Dust. Sweep. Polish.

Bathe.

Scrub.

Dust. Sweep. Vacuum.

Bathe.

Seven days past the red cross on the calendar. A hundred crumpled lengths of loo roll. No red, no pink. No curse. Curse. Curse/curse/fucking worse/fucking slag/fuck/fuck/fucking hell. Dust. Sweep. Polish. Vacuum. Bathe. Tidy out the drawers. Toss out tiny knickers, lace-edged knickers, flimsy knickers, tart's knickers. Watch a wall of back-to-back daytime television. You too can feed your man strawberries on a spear, drop a dress size, have a three-inch cleavage. You too are worth it. Check the locks.

Two blue lines.

A life.

Or death.

Check the locks.

Bathe.

Dust.

Bathe.

Dust, polish, bathe, vacuum, bathe.

Bathe twice a day, 3 times, 6. With a side of gin. Just a drop. I'm not that woman. Just a

bucketful. I can't be that person.

Check the locks.

Puking puts paid to the gin.

I fight myself over food that tastes of sawdust. Don't feed the devil's spawn, don't feed it,

don't feed it. Don't. It's not her fault. Not your fault. Not her fault. Don't starve her.

Don't/don't/don't.

Arrange the pans so the handles are parallel, perfectly parallel. Like the bars of a cell.

Iron the dishcloths.

Check the locks.

My shit turns black. I dream of a demon upon me, inside me, his seed dark as satan's, infecting me with evil. Black claws sprout from my fingertips and rake at cold, dead eyes. I wake to my own screams.

They tell me it's the iron tablets.

I swap slut clothes for tents: second-hand, two sizes too big.

Keep swelling. Keep existing.

It kicks.

Check the locks.

Dust, polish, vacuum, bathe, sleep.

She grows.

They continue weighing me, sampling me, examining me, with sterile gloves as snappy as their brisk efficiency, and sterile equipment as bright as their smiles. Keep telling me I'm doing fine. The pounds are creeping on. How many of them are me? Dust, vacuum, sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.

Friends bring gifts and remind me I have things to buy and things to do. I fold tiny clothes—powder-soft, shades of candy floss, satin ribbons—thin like laces. Long thin black bootlaces.

Dust. Polish. Bathe. Vacuum.

Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.

It takes me a day to erect the cot. I run a hand down rigid bars. Whose cage is it?

Scrub the nursery. Check the locks.

Got everything ready? Won't be long, now. All ready?

Already?

Already?

Already.

Will she have eyes like his? Will she smell like him? How will I look at her? How will I hold her? How will I feed her? How will I keep her safe? How?

Breathe, they say. Just breathe.