when I step through the front door.
I take the backstreets and
sprint down a dirty alley,
recover and jog.
Pick up my pace
round the back of the bus garage
and sprint past the park.
Too long.
Stop a quarter of the way.
Catch my breath.
Look behind me,
look in front.
One day.
One day.
I’m gonna sprint
this entire street
without stopping.
Recover and sprint again.
Halfway.
Park seems longer today.
Recover. Sprint again.
Twice more.
Jog up the hill,
turn on to our estate.
I stop.
Take a moment.
Shake out my arms and legs.
Lunge up the front steps.
Long strides,
three steps at a time,
thighs burning
all the way up
to the front door.
Sweaty and smiling,
endorphins helping me forget,
got me seeing through
rose-tinted glasses as I
sneak a peek through the window.
See Dad
sitting at the kitchen table.
It’s fine.
I tell myself.
I’m sweaty and smiling,
endorphins still playing their
tricks.
My key turns
in the front door.
Hands shake
as endorphins start to quit.
I feel them
dying.
Take a deep breath,
try and breathe
life back into them
before I open the door
and walk into the kitchen.
I feel the difference in the air.
It’s heavy in here.
All positive feelings disappear,
replaced in an instant
by an almighty lead weight
in my chest.
He stares.
I force a smile
as rocks land in my stomach.
He sits
at the kitchen table.
Eyes bloodshot red.
Where have you been?
School.
Don’t lie.
I’m not!
Dad’s sitting, staring.
I’ll ask you one more time.
Where have you been?
I stayed late talking to my teacher at school.
He rubs his bald head
with clenched fists,
looks at me out of the corner of his eye,
makes his way to the kitchen window and
stares out across the street.
He starts asking too many questions
and I’m telling too many lies.
I say something about Mrs Wittle,
tripping over my words,
as I try to convince.
The one with the purple hair …
Small …
Parents’ evening …
Every bit of me is shaking.
A rabbit caught in headlights.
I stand paralysed.
Dad’s starting to shout,
saying I was seen with
… a boy.
I swallow vomit
as his voice thunders across the estate,
loud enough for everyone
to hear threats
about The Man
across the road.
He lives
across the road.
You can see his house
from the kitchen window.
Ever since we were little
me and Ruby
have been warned
about The Man across the road.
How he killed his daughter.
How she’d done bad things.
How she’d shamed the family.
Her parents told the school
she’d gone back to their ‘homeland’,
but really her dad disposed of the body,
and everyone in the community keeps quiet.
We were to take it as a warning:
should we shame, dishonour or disobey,
we would end up the very same way.
It could be little things like
being caught dancing to the radio.
Or bigger things like
Ruby wanting to do A levels.
I remember the first time
the warning came.
You know The Man across the road …
It was almost casual in tone.
I remember thinking,
Why is he telling me?
and then slowly
this sinking feeling …
knowing why he was telling me.
So I’d really study The Man.
I’d watch him take his bins out,
wondering if he was disposing of body parts.
I’d spy on him as he mowed his lawn,
wondering if she was buried under the grass.
We always saw him with two daughters,
but if I only saw one daughter,
and I hadn’t seen the other one for a while,
I’d get a bit scared, you know …
but then she’d reappear,
and I’d be like … phew …
but then I would think
about the third daughter.
The murdered one,
the one we’d never seen,
and my heart would start beating so fast
I’d find it hard to catch my breath.
When I was little,
he was the monster under my bed,
the bogeyman in the wardrobe,
the demon in the darkness,
the vampire outside my window.
I’d sleep with the light on,
praying I wouldn’t become his prey.
Now,
he is real.
The story in the newspaper,
or on the ten o’clock news.
Police ignored girl’s pleas.
Remains found in a suitcase.
Father and brother arrested.
An honour killing.
Although
there is no honour
in killing.
You think because I’m illiterate I don’t see?
You think you can pull the wool over my eyes?
Dad’s voice
penetrates skin
and bone.
His brow furrowed,
his eyes red,
wild and staring.
His hands
are fists
resting on the table.
You think I don’t hear the lie?
You think you can trick me?
You think you’re being clever?
My eyes sting
and there’s something
in my throat.
Don’t cry.
I mustn’t cry.
I’m stuck.
Feet buried in the lino,
not listening to the mouth moving,
just the sound ringing in my ears.
Fingers digging into skin.
Pain numbs emotion.
I want to run,
never stopping.
Say something.
You have a tongue.
Speak!
It was just McDonald’s.
My voice quiet
weak
frightened.
From now on you come straight home.
Do you know how this makes me look?
Do you know what people will say about me?
Do not put a stain on our family name.
He talks of dishonour.
Behzti.
You’re lucky, he says.
If you were in India,
I would have thrown you
into th
e street
for behzti like this.
Is it ungrateful to feel
that I’m not that
lucky?
Only girls carry behzti.
It is on our shoulders alone.
But behzti stains this family name
by Dad and Dad alone.
Every time he gets drunk
and strangers bring him home.
Legs feel heavy
as they carry me
up the stairs.
My head feels light
as the contents
of my stomach
erupt from my mouth,
filling up the toilet bowl.
I sit on the edge
of my bed,
staring at the space
where Ruby’s bed
used to be.
The room looks uneven,
feels all wrong,
like it doesn’t suit
being half empty.
My eyes close.
I’m so tired.
It feels like
I haven’t slept
since she left.
Ruby’s
gentle
quiet
never makes a fuss.
I’m
spiky
loud
way too emotional.
We were more than sisters.
We were allies.
We saw the hurdles we were
to overcome,
and we were going to jump them together.
I’d tell Ruby
that she could do with getting
a bit of fire in her belly.
She’d say
I could do with simmering down.
Couldn’t be more different,
some would say.
I thought we complemented each other.
We didn’t have to try.
We just belonged.
We fitted.
That’s what made us work.
That’s what made us
STRONG.
Sharing a room.
(Sharing a room
with Ruby was the best.)
Telling her everything.
(She was the first friend
I ever made.)
Nights tucked up in her bed.
(Because I was too scared to
sleep alone.)
Ruby tucked up in my bed.
(Reading to me
until I slept.)
Making vision boards together.
(We loved to dream. Places
to travel, goals to achieve.)
Supporting each other.
(She’d time my sprints,
I’d read every essay she wrote.)
Dancing on her feet.
(She would carry me around
and call me her little dolly.)
Feeling safe.
(When Mum and Dad would argue,
she’d take me upstairs, pile duvets over me
and put earmuffs over my ears.)
The things we said before we went to sleep.
(Love you like apple loves crumble.
Love you like sock loves foot.)
Ruby was my strength.
I felt superhuman
knowing she was around.
Ruby was my everything,
more than a sister, a forever friend.
It was us against the world.
Together we spied on The Man.
Squealed if he came out of his house
and ducked down from the kitchen window.
Laughing to mask the fear,
knowing I was safe with her.
She’d squeeze my hand tight as we passed
by his house on the way to school
only letting go when
she knew I felt safe.
We shared dreams of the future and
played games of make-believe,
telling ourselves,
It won’t always be like this.
Promising to protect each other.
Standing side by side.
No one would ever break us.
Now we fight
like they fight.
We torture and hurt.
With a swift slice of a sharp tongue,
we open old wounds and
stop them from healing.
Years of lessons
impossible to unlearn.
We fight like they fight.
We fight like they fight.
We fight like they fight.
We fight like they fight.
And we are good.
I’ll always be here for you,
she said.
I’ll never leave you
to fend for yourself,
she said.
Trust me,
she said.
I’ll get us out of here,
she said.
Then she left.
Is it easier
to lose someone
for real?
To bury them
in the ground,
never see them again?
Rather than
seeing them
but never
having them back
the way they were?
To have them
living,
breathing,
but gone?
My head is a jumble of images
a mixing desk of sounds.
The Man Auntie Vomit Traffic Lights Fists Sprinting Tara
bewakoofbewakoofbewakoofbewakoofbewakoofbewakoofbewakoof
Red Jumper Green Light Track Shoelace Tarmac Sweat Trainers
vomitvomitvomitvomitvomitvomitvomitvomitvomitvomitvomitvomitvomit. Woman. Staring. Eyes. David. Hand. Wrist. Eyes.
Shopping Bags Phone Shop Mackie D’s Heart Thumping
Thudthudthudthudthudthudthudthudthudthud
Hand Wrist Warm Stay Smile Eyes Cheekbones Hand Wrist Warm Stay
DavidDavidDavidDavidDavidDavidDavidDavidDavidDavidDavidDavid
T H E M A N
deaddaughterdeaddaughterdeaddaughterdeaddaughterdeaddaughter
Can’tbreathecan’tbreathecan’tbreathecan’tbreathecan’tbreathe
H E L P
Can’tbreathecan’tbreathecan’tbreathecan’tbreathecan’tbreathe can’tbreathe can’tbreathecan’tbreathecan’tbreathecan’tbreathe can’tbreathecan’tbreathe
H E L P
Inhale exhale inhale exhale inhale exhale inhale exhale inhale exhale
I DON’T WANT TO BE HERE
Inhale exhale inhale exhale inhale exhale inhale exhale inhale exhale
Revolutions traffic lights purple hair park toilet vomit fake pupils eyes
track running
RunningRunningRunningRunningRunningRunningRunningRunning
I WISH I COULD ESCAPE
BehztiBehztiBehztiBehzti
GET ME OUT
bewakoofbewakoofbewakoofbewakoofbewakoofbewakoofbewakoof
H E L P
Help
Help
Help
Anyone?
If I can’t run,
I’m not whole.
I’m only half
a person.
The thought of that
weighs heavy,
seems so dark.
The feeling goes
beyond running.
I see
my entire future
like Ruby’s.
The realization
that choice
is not a privilege
I am given.
The frustration of
wanting more
and not knowing
how to get it.
I’m paralysed
with fear,
allowing only tears
the freedom
to
run
down
my
face.
I stare at the ceiling,
longing for a time
before
I wanted more.
Before
I stopped being content.
Before
I learned that girls had to be subservient.
Before
I decided that being subservient
just isn’t in my blood.
The flimsy, dog-eared book
feels heavy in my hand.
I stare at the cover,
the title teasing.
The Art of Revolution.
I turn to the introduction.
Fighting for freedom.
To do what the heart desires.
I begin reading,
sinking deeper and deeper,
devouring each page.
Something is calling.
I feel it running through me,
testing, teasing, telling me
that what’s to come will be
the biggest, bravest thing
I will ever do.
One to eight.
It’s all there:
the secrets
the plots
the war
the change
the peace.
Words land in my empty stomach,
nourishing it with tales of courage
that starve the ever-present
baseline of fear and anxiety as I
immerse myself in stage one and
how it all starts.
Words leap out
from the page
and land like a
punch in the gut,
waking up my insides.
I flick through
the pages,
trying to absorb
the text as quick as I can,
drink it all in.
The only other place
I am this excited
is on the track.
I’m amazed –
Mr History Jones
has won me over.
I take it all back …
I feel truly alive.
Knowing that change must come from me.
Knowing I do have a choice.
Knowing that this choice,
that this change,
might mean
my life
may never
be the
same again.
I light Tara’s gift.
The smell of sage
wraps itself round the room.
I close my eyes.
Breathe in
two–three–four
breathe out
two–three–four.
Tara taught me
how to meditate.
I’m no good.
Breathe in
two–three–four
breathe out
two–three–four.
Breathe in
two–three–four
breathe out
two …
It’s no good.
Thoughts keep racing.