14. A Woman’s Worst Nightmare

We were busy in our bedroom. Like every Thursday. Once a week, we moved everything out of its place to give it a thorough cleaning. We heard the front door unlocked. It’s actually always open, as is quite common in this area. Only the occasional delivery driver came by, but we expected nothing. It could also be Ciaran who came home sick.

Three unfamiliar men stood in the living room, wearing faded T-shirts and dirty jeans. Two of them were maybe a few years older than Ciaran; the middle one was in his thirties, I’d guess.

“Where is Ciaran?” The middle guy asked. More growled than asked, actually.

“Away,” I said.

“We want to talk to him. Where is he?”

“No idea. He’s not telling us where he’s going.” I said.

He nodded to the boys. “Search the entire house. Miss nothing. There’s a good chance the weasel is hiding in a corner and using these women as a distraction.” His followers walked toward the stairs.

“Hey, That will not happen. I already said he’s not there. You can’t just walk into someone’s house and search it.” I protested.

“Just you wait and see.” He said, almost politely. “Go ahead, boys.” We heard them climbing the stairs.

“What’s with the chain?” Sylvia told him I was blind, and she was my guide dog. Without warning, he slapped Sylvia hard in her face with his flat hand. With his other hand, he slapped my face. Almost just before impact, he stopped. I flinched in anticipation of the blow that never came.

“She’s just as blind as I am. Once a liar, always a liar. You know damn well where Ciaran is, and believe me, we’re going to find him. He owes us just a little too much money to just walk away like that. He should have known better.”

We heard a huge commotion upstairs. Apparently, it wasn’t enough to see that Ciaran wasn’t there, and the whole thing had to be demolished. When they couldn’t find what they were looking for upstairs, they continued downstairs.

“Sit down,” The big, burly guy said. Wild hair, thick and almost black, with a neatly trimmed beard. Brown eyes that seemed void of compassion or empathy. Broad shoulders, a strong chest, and the beginning of a belly. We sat for about five minutes without talking. Just sitting there, with a lot of noise, the sounds of violence and destruction in the background, filled us with dread already.

Against that backdrop of violence, my fear of men came to the forefront. In fact, women are always afraid of men. That might sound strange, considering I was married to a man who wouldn’t hurt a fly, but even that doesn’t change any of my fear. The feeling of being helpless, defenceless against their power, their violence. The feeling that I could be raped and that they even have the power to kill me if they so choose—that feeling swelled inside me. I avoided looking into his eyes. The fact that they can completely dominate us — and I’m not talking about the twisted game Sylvia and her family play so well, but truly dominating by destroying us — is terrifying. And that’s why it’s so idiotic that the very thing we women fear so much, we also somehow find attractive.

“He’s not here. He was here; he has a room upstairs, but we have found no money.”

“You,” He nodded to the boy with blond, almost white hair. “Go outside and keep watch. I want to know when he comes.”

As Blondie walked out, the guy with the beard said, “Okay, we will go. But before we go, we will leave a message for him.” He nodded to the other guy. “Take them to the bedroom.” They shoved us both into our bedroom where the contents of all the drawers were lying on the floor. What followed is too horrific to describe. Perhaps you’re waiting for a detailed account, but I don’t want to subject you, and certainly not myself, to it. It was three hours of humiliation, shame, pain, and discomfort. In which the ugliest side of what love can be was exploited, and a cup of misogyny was filled to the brim and drained. Afterward, we were both tied to the bed so we couldn’t move. Sylvia’s back had nothing written on it. Her phoenix would rise again. But on my back, buttocks, and legs, there was a lipstick sign saying, “We’ll be back, and if you don’t have the money, we’ll kill you.”

And they left. I did not know if they were waiting for Ciaran outside, but it was quiet in the house. No more sounds of tears, nor of tearing clothes. No more panting and cursing, no more spoken words that no woman should ever have to hear. The silence was like a blanket around us. Tied to the bed, saturated with bodily fluids. Stains that defy removal. Pain inflicted with the aim to last a lifetime. Fear purposefully instilled to endure eternally.

“Are you okay?” Sylvia was the first to break the silence.

“Yeah,” I said wearily. “Do you think they are gone, or would they wait for Ciaran?”

“Dunno, perhaps they should kill the motherfucker so we can go home.” Sylvia said.

“Don’t say that. Ciaran is not the one that did this to us.” I defended him.

“Yes, he is. The moment you lend money from guys like that, you know you cannot ever pay them back. He is a rotten, spoiled, rich asshole.”

“No, he’s not.” I said.

Sylvia snorted. “You have a crush on him.”

“No, I don’t!” I felt outraged by such a suggestion. “Why do you say that?”

“Listen, girl. I have known you for ages. I see the way you look at him, I hear the voice you speak to him, hell, I even smell your pussy react to him. Take it from someone who fell once for a bad boy, you feel something for him.”