Betrayed

 Betrayed: a short story

  Copyright 2014 Dianne Zanetti

  Cover image: Broken heart

  Copyright Tatyana Okitina: Dreamstime.com

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  Dedication

  To my children

  Matt, Jo-Jo, ’Lana and Chrissy:

  Thanks for believing in me.

  Betrayed

  It was Friday night and I was hanging out washing by torchlight. My arms needed a rest between pegging out each pair of my father’s heavy overalls. As I raised them above my head for the last time, I heard my sister calling from the kitchen.

  “Livvy, where are you?”

  “Just a sec,” I yelled back.

  As I walked through the laundry, I placed the empty wash basket on top of the washing machine. Inside the kitchen, my seven-year-old sister, Annie, stood staring into the fridge.

  “There’s left over apple crumble and custard up the back—behind the beetroot.”

  “Thanks,” she said as she wriggled her hand along the fridge shelf and pulled out the hidden bowl. I opened the cutlery drawer and passed her a spoon as she walked past me into the dining room.

  “As soon as you finish that, do your teeth and get ready for bed.”

  She didn’t answer. Her attention had already been hijacked by the television I’d left on in the lounge room. A part of me wanted to flop in front of the TV and to let her fall asleep snuggled up to me on the couch. I’d done that before, but last time, I’d been the one who’d fallen asleep and Annie had stayed awake watching ‘The Night Stalker’. She’d had nightmares for a week.

  I went into my bedroom, slipped on my night dress and was brushing my teeth in the bathroom when Annie came in and joined me.

  “Will you read me a story?”

  Half an hour later, I tucked her in and crawled into my own bed. Thomas Hardy’s The Mayor of Casterbridge lay open and face down on my bedside table. I picked it up, read three lines, twice, put it back down and clicked off my bedside light.

  #

  The main street of Goomalling was deserted. A gaggle of girls were smoking cigarettes on the steps of the post office; several others were talking into the public telephones that lined the outside wall. Mark flicked a strand of dirty blond hair away from his eyes as he cruised past in his panel van. Ginny Stevens waved him in. As he pulled up and wound down his window, Ginny wandered over and leant inside.

  “Livvy’s not here. She’s staying home.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Mark couldn’t help noticing that Ginny’s breasts were almost bursting out of her sweat-stained satin shirt. He gulped.

  Ginny’s tongue traced the outline of her lips. “So, d’you wanna take me for a drive?”

  “Ah. No thanks.” Mark looked away and revved his engine. Ginny stood up.

  “You’re wasting your time with her, you know, she’s a tight bitch,” she said.

  Mark watched the swing of Ginny’s hips as she walked away and then drove on down the street. No familiar cars were in the pub car park so he continued on around the corner and pulled up outside the Goomalling Club. Inside the sportsmen’s club, a group of youths sat in a corner with their backs to the bar. Mark dragged a stool to the corner and joined his mates.

  The young men’s speech got louder and became more animated with every jug of beer, and by the end of the night, almost everyone in the bar could hear their conversation. There was sporadic laughter as the boys bragged about their sexual conquests and compared notes on the sexual prowess of all the local girls.

  “Olivia Tobias? Not much in the tit department, but fuck, what a go-er,” said Frankie.

  “The night she turned sixteen, I took her up the hill and she practically ripped my clothes off,” said Greg. “She was gagging for it.”

  “You’re full of shit,” said her boyfriend, Mark.

  “What? Isn’t she hot for you?” Frankie jested. “She loves a bit of cock that one,” he added. Greg nodded knowingly. “If you get her pissed enough, she’s anyone’s – just ask Robbo – he was the first to fuck her.”

  As someone was leaving, a rush of wind caught the bar door and slammed it shut. The young men turned in unison and through the bar window, caught a glimpse of Hector Tobias’s six foot frame staggering towards his car.

  “Fuck! Do you reckon he heard?” asked Greg. The drunken youths laughed nervously as Hector waved his keys around the door handle of his car.

  #

  I was in a sleepy stupor when Dad burst into my room screaming, “You little slut.” He lunged at me, caught a handful of my long blond hair and yanked me out of bed. I was bent over, following him as he led me from my bedroom by the hair. I kept thinking; this can’t be happening. He staggered, slammed my head into the passage wall, regained his balance and dragged me into the living area.

  Clutching a fistful of my hair, Dad flung me against a wall and my head smacked into it. Dizzy black spots appeared in front of my eyes. He pressed a bent arm against my chest to hold me to the wall. At some point, while Dad was swearing and hurling abuse at me, he let go of my hair and I saw a clump of it drift to the floor.

  “How many have there been?” he yelled and sprayed me with scotch-scented spittle.

  “What are you talking about, Dad?”

  “How many men have you slept with?” As he wobbled in front of me, the veins on his temples pulsed and his elbow slid into my neck, putting pressure on my larynx and making it difficult to speak. “Tell me!” he demanded.

  “None,” I croaked.

  “You’re lying.” I felt a sharp sting as he stepped back and swiped his hand across my cheek. “I heard what you’ve been up to – the whole town did – the boys were all talking about you at the Club.” He looked away and as he leant against me, his stabilizing arm closed off my airway. I grabbed at his arm and tried to pull it away.

  “I haven’t … done … anything …” I gasped.

  “How could you do this to me?” he asked as I struggled against him. “What is wrong with you?”

  Dad stepped back, released the pressure from my throat, and stumbled into the lounge room. While I hoarsely sucked in air, he sat on the couch, rested his head in his hands, and wailed, “Where did we go wrong?”

  A surge of anger overtook me. I followed him into the lounge room and screamed in my husky voice, “Where did you go wrong? You went wrong when you believed those fucking liars!”

  I ran into my bedroom, turned on the light, and looked frantically around the room. I pushed a cupboard up against my door and sat on my bed, staring at a large rip in my night dress. I’m not sure how long it was before I heard the tapping at my bedroom window. It was Mark. I opened the window. He climbed inside and went to wrap his muscular arms around my shivering body. I cringed. He stepped back.

  “Shit! What did he do to you?” I held my night dress open to show him my neck. I tipped my head forward and parted my hair. As I pulled my hand away, we noticed there was blood.

  “Get dressed. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

  What happened after that is a blur. Mark must have issued instructions for me to follow. I don’t remember packing my clothes into suitcases, my favorite books into a box, or clearing all my toiletries and cosmetics from the bathroom cabinet. I don’t remember Mark loading all my possessions into his van or any discussion about leaving. I do recall hearing my Dad snoring from the couch in the lounge room as I closed the front door for the last time.

  I have vague, fragmented memories of other things. I remem
ber being wrapped in several blankets and feeling chilled to the core, like my bones were frozen. I remember curling into a fetal ball on cold starched sheets and the coif-haired hospital matron sitting on a chair next to my bed, telling me that nothing my father had done to me was my fault.

  “Olivia, what your Dad did to you, there is a name for that, it’s called child abuse,” she said, “and it’s against the law. I need you to be honest with me. Has anything like this ever happened before? Has he touched you or hurt you in any other way?”

  “No. I swear. This is the only time he’s ever really lost it. I mean, sometimes when I’ve done something wrong, he might do his block, but no, nothing like this.”

  “I think you should make a police report.”

  “No, I couldn’t … He’d just had too much to drink.”

  “That doesn’t excuse his behavior. He has no right to hurt you the way he did.”

  “He’s been under so much pressure lately, you know, since Mum left, and well, telling the police … It would just be … embarrassing.”

  “Look, how about I just make a record of your injuries—in case you change your mind?”

  I watched while the matron gently unbuttoned my shirt, measured the red marks on my neck, and posed me for photographs. I saw my body jerk involuntarily after every camera flash. I heard the matron tell a whimpering girl that she really should report it to the police and I saw that girl shake her head, but it didn’t feel like that person was me.

  “Have you thought about where you are going to go?”

  “Go?”

  “Well, you can stay here tonight, but tomorrow we’ll have to work out something else.”

  #

  The next morning I woke up crying. When the matron came into my room, she was wearing a floral printed dress and a light cardigan. Her hair was loose and her squeaky, practical shoes had been replaced with a low-heeled sandal. She passed me another dose of pain killers and sat on the edge of my bed.

  “It might help to talk about it,” she said. “Do you think you can tell me what happened?” She winced a few times and squeezed my hand as I revisited the events of the previous night.

  “What hurts the most is that he did nothing,” I said. “I thought he would’ve defended me; said something like: How dare you speak about my daughter like that and punched someone’s lights out. Seriously, that’s what I thought he’d do. I always thought he had my back and that he’d protect me. He should’ve at least said something to the lying bastards, but he didn’t even doubt it,” I sobbed. “He believed them.”

  “You know, even if what they’d said was true, it still wouldn’t justify your Dad’s behavior.”

  “Well, I’m not saying I’ve never done anything with any of those guys, but I’ve never been all the way. I might as well have, though. Everyone obviously thinks I’m doing it.”

  #

  I’d been temporarily accommodated in a spare room in the Nurses’ Quarters. It was a roof over my head and the board I paid provided me with three meals a day, but the evening meal was served at five o’clock, lights were out by ten, and we had to tip-toe around and stay quiet all day because someone was always sleeping.

  Noise was probably the thing I missed most after leaving home—that and Annie, who came to visit me every weekend. I’d seen my Dad a few times; once at work and the other times at the shops. He acted like nothing had happened and I did my best to pretend the same.

  When one of the nurses came to tell me I had a visitor, I was surprised to see my Dad standing in the community lounge.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “Don’t be like that,” was all he said. We stood there until the awkward silence became unbearable. I pushed past him and indicated for him to follow me outside. As we wandered through the hospital gardens, he finally began to speak.

  “I’m on the Hospital Board, you know. I could stop you from living here,” was the first thing he said. “But I won’t,” he continued, “as long as you …” I stopped walking and looked up at him.

  “I thought you’d come to apologize.”

  “What? I came to tell you that Annie needs you at home.”

  “You’re not sorry are you, for what you did? You’re just sorry you lost your free babysitter.” I turned and walked away.

  “I don’t remember what happened,” he called out as he strode after me.

  “Piss off, Dad,” I said as I entered the nurses’ lounge and closed the door in his face.

  Knowing that my Dad could have me evicted as a way of forcing me to go back home eroded my sense of security. There wasn’t any other accommodation available for single women in town. If I had to leave the Nurses’ Quarters, my only choices were to move in with Mark or leave Goomalling—once and for all.

  #

  It was Friday night. Mark and I were at his place. The remnants of a candlelit dinner surrounded a box of after dinner mints on the table and there was soft music playing in the background. I had my feet up on the end of the couch and my head was resting in Mark’s lap. He was playing with my hair and stroking my forehead. I felt a fluttering in my stomach.

  “Let’s do it,” I suggested.

  “What?”

  I sat up, swung my legs around and faced him. “Have sex.”

  “What, now?”

  Between kisses I mumbled, “Mmhhmm … might as well get it over with.” Mark stopped kissing me and pulled away.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” I kissed him again.

  “Did you really just say yes?”

  “Yep.”

  I could feel him trembling in my arms as we clung to each other and it reminded me of something the matron had said: All men seem like great blokes when they’re getting what they want from you; it’s how they behave when they’re not that counts. When my life got messy and I needed someone to rely on, Mark had been there for me and I wanted to be there for him in a way that was important to him.

  Losing my virginity wasn’t the life-changing moment I thought it would be. It hurt a fair bit and just when it started to feel a little better; it was over. Afterwards, when Mark held me in his arms and told me he loved me, I felt like I’d found a place I could belong.

  The next morning, dressed in one of Mark’s T-shirts, I scrounged around the bedroom hunting for my discarded clothes. I reached down the end of the bed in search of my knickers and found another pair of women’s panties.

  ###

  About the Author

  Dianne Zanetti is the mother of four young-adult children. She lives in Perth, Western Australia and is currently completing an Arts Degree at Edith Cowan University. In her spare time, Dianne works as a volunteer for Underdog Writing Services where she writes Family Court and other legal administration documents for disadvantaged clients and small business operators.

  For the past thirty years, Dianne has focused on writing creative non-fiction; however, she is currently writing poetry and fiction stories inspired by events that occurred in her youth. Dianne’s poem “Close Call” was highly commended in the 2013 Talus Prize for poetry.

  This is the first of Dianne’s short stories to be published on-line.

  Disclaimer

  ‘Betrayed’ was inspired by a true story. Dianne confirms that the characters were invented, some from composites of real people, and that aspects of the story – including the ending – were fictionalized for dramatic effect.

 

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