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Take me by the hand
Amie Truelove
4 Apr 2003
She lies back on the bed, her hair falling over her face, hiding for a minute his latest handiwork: a spectacular array of purples, blues and reds stretching from her eyebrow to the tiny dimple above her lip. She breathes a silent sigh, afraid to wake him from his drunken slumber in the next room and to risk another run in with the unforgiving monster the whisky had created. She knows she couldn't survive another incident like that. Not tonight. She'll let him sleep it off, he'll be himself again by the morning, full of dramatic apologies and grand romantic gestures. But as she lies there in the darkened room she wonders to herself, when does an apology stop being enough? There must come a point when she can't forgive him anymore. There has to be. If only she were that strong. She tries to picture herself just getting up right now, packing her bags and leaving. But where would she run to? She has no friends anymore; he'd seen to that months ago, "What do you need them for when you've got me? You won't see them again, alright?" Now escape could only ever be from one Hell to another. So for now she'll settle for a few hours of freedom, a few hours in which she doesn't have to fear. She'll deal with tomorrow when he wakes. As she finally slips off to sleep, the music from the flat below drifts through the floor boards and into her dreams.
"Take me by the hand, take me somewhere new.........."
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