Anaïs Simone Series 2: Chaos and destruction
I looked back at my life and my various stories of abuse with an inexplicable yet irrepressible desire to write and share them. I wanted to go back in time and recapture every moment struck by violence. To follow the thread of this silent tune that inexorably played each time.
Before Y, I had spent almost a year in a relationship with A. The chaos in which he plunged me was such that I struggled to find the right words for it. All I could think of and repeat in my head was ‘black hole’, for it is the energy that began to arise from him just a few months after our tender and cheerful beginnings — and that never left us. How do you tell the story of a black hole when it has pulled you in?
Any resemblance with existing characters and real events is not fortuitous.
Part one
A family, at last
I met him in Bordeaux, where I had settled after spending fifteen years abroad. He was gentle, considerate, caring. He and I aspired to establish a stable and loving relationship. Very soon we spent all our time together, living in each other’s homes. He introduced me to his two children, and every other week, when he had custody of them, I found myself living a family life that I had long aspired to, with laughter around the table, late breakfasts and teenage fads.
We were building up our life slowly but surely. There was something deeply satisfying about his everyday rhythm which I had never really known before. Our first months together were punctuated by walks, music, travels, sharing confessions and hugs. I loved his generosity, his affection, this family life. He fulfilled an unquenched dream. But there was something about him that bothered me. He was telling me about his chaotic past, made up of a thousand heart-rending stories, and on certain days he couldn’t hold still. His energy was somewhat crazy, overwhelming. Until it became destructive.
First holidays, first crisis
After a few months, we went on a family holiday to Portugal. I made a simple mistake which led to a violent crisis, which soon became part of our daily existence.
When we arrived in Lisbon, the agency where I had booked a car refused to rent it to us. I had, for the first time in my life as a globetrotter, forgotten my passport and had only an identity card as proof of identity, which was insufficient for them. They didn’t want to hear anything. We were without a car, more than an hour away from the coast where we had rented our hotel.
I didn’t think much of it, confident that we would find a solution once we got there. But when I looked at A, I saw his face was shut in a grimace of cold anger. A feeling of fear burst into my stomach, silently breaking the heat and the blue skies of Lisbon. I didn’t show anything and booked a taxi. That evening A spoke little and drank a lot. His anger was palpable. The children and I put on a brave face, but an evident uneasiness could be sensed as we exchanged glances.
The next day we left for Lisbon by bus. After a few phone calls I found a rental car available the next day. Relieved, I smiled and told A as we started our walk around the city. With a cold look he told me that he would only believe it once we had the car in our hands. Then he ignored me, and ignored his children too, for the entire day. He started drinking very early, a lot, he talked and laughed with barmen, strangers, people passing by, and not once to us — we no longer existed.
His son begged him softly, asking him to wait, to stop or to go here or there. A didn’t listen to him, nor did he look at him. His daughter’s face took a closed expression. I tried to talk to him, but all I got was a nasty look, and he immediately walked away. He was walking far from us, stopping in bars. He would get angry at the slightest request. I attended to the children and tried to save this day trip that had become a nightmare. Dusk set. Exhausted, worn out, rejected for the umpteenth time as I tried to talk to him, I let my anger and tears burst out in the street. He blamed me. Without respite, in front of his children and then all the passengers on the bus, he told me all sorts, blamed me for a thousand things, condemned this holiday which, he said, I had ruined. I cried, stunned by a storm of unfair accusations and dumbfounded by such verbal violence. I changed seats. He raised his voice and made me come back next to him. I kept silent.
He left without us after we arrived. I ordered a taxi with his two children. I tried to put on a human face, dried my tears, approached them and promised them that we would have a car, that we would all enjoy a nice holiday, that I was sorry they had to go through this, that I didn’t quite understand their father’s reaction, but that everything would be all right. His twelve-year old son looked at me and said softly, “That’s how daddy is. Now it’s your turn”.
