Claire Thompson - Tracy in chains

"I want to work on saying goodbye," she finally managed to croak, her voice little more than a whisper.

Suddenly the world flicked back on and she could hear again, her breathing audible in her ears. She saw Kyle stiffen in his seat, as his large thin hands gripped the arms of his chair. She felt the heat in her face and neck and a curious lightness in her body. What had she done? She finally admitted what had been lurking in her heart, hiding even from herself. She wanted out. She wanted to be free.

"I can't stay here anymore. I can't stand to be around you," Kyle announced a few days later. He had stormed out of the counselor's office, the tires of his fancy late model Aurora screeching, leaving his wife and Dr. Pearson staring at each other. Dr. Pearson remained calm as always, but Tracy was stunned, as if she'd been sucker punched.

She'd left the office soon after, unable to listen to the therapist's calm advice. For the next few days, she and Kyle continued to share the same space in the same house, but the marriage was broken and neither of them had the slightest idea how to fix it.

Kyle stood in front of the breakfast table, holding his garment bag and a large duffel. Tracy was relieved. At least something was happening. "It's over between us, Tracy. I should never have married you. We were never suited. Knowing what I know now, that you were never committed to me or to our marriage – it just sickens me."

Tracy started to protest, but Kyle held up a hand, his whole countenance forbidding her from speaking. "Please," he intoned, determined to continue what was probably a carefully prepared speech. "I don't want to hear your feeble protestations. You've made your bed, as they say, now go lie in it. Even if we'd continued that counseling, I could see from the beginning it was a waste of time. I was just trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, to see if you were willing to put that immature sexual deviance behind you and behave like a mature adult woman. I was willing to give you another chance; to love you in spite of all you've done to me.

"But I can see now what you really are; what you've always been, hiding behind that timid little facade of yours. You're a slut, Tracy, pure and simple. A pig. And for every pig, there's a pig fucker, but it sure isn't me." He left the room. "You'll be hearing from my lawyer," he called back to her. His words were punctuated by the front door slamming.

Tracy sat in her chair, completely still for some minutes. The scathing remark about pigs and pig fuckers had shamed her, making her ears burn scarlet with a blossoming rage.

She let out a long, deep sigh, and said aloud, "Well. That's that then." Tracy realized with a little spark of excitement that she was getting out, and she didn't have to run to do it. Kyle sprang the trap for them both. He had unlocked the prison door and taken off. Tentatively, she put a foot over the threshold, then stepped out herself, feeling the shackles of a lifetime fall from her shoulders.

Things weren't too terribly different after Kyle left, Tracy found to her surprise. After all, they had been avoiding each other more and more as their relationship deteriorated, except for the brief 'honeymoon' Kyle tried to create at the beginning of their marriage counseling.

Why should it be differentnow, she thought. After all, Tracy had always been the one to keep the house, buy the food, pay the bills and generally keep things running smoothly. Her only concern in staying in that house was how to meet the mortgage, but her attorney had told her Kyle was going to have to cover it until the agreement was settled, as his income was so much higher than hers.

Ironic, she thought, with a little toss of her head, he is finally 'the primary bread winner' and he ends up walking out on me. If she were honest with herself, he may have been the one to physically leave, but they'd left each other. He wasn't all to blame.

She didn't care about the money, and discovered she actually enjoyed being alone. For the first time in her life, she bought just the foods she wanted, and prepared her own simple little meals in the evening, instead of the lavish full course dinners Kyle preferred. The bed was easy to make now, since she still slept on her half, which was really her third, since Kyle was so much bigger than she was, and needed all that space to comfortably fit his 6'5" frame.

She ate ice cream straight out of the pint, not worrying that Kyle would be 'grossed out' by her germs. She left her pantyhose drying over the shower rail and didn't hide her tampax away when she was having her period.

She still kept the house clean as she always had; that was too deeply ingrained, and she was neat by nature. As Kyle came by periodically to remove his things, she was happier with the place, which she had always felt was too cluttered with his extensive 'objets d'art', the knickknacks he liked to collect and line every available shelf with. Not to mention his 10,000 CDs and his fancy stereo system which had taken half the space in the living room.

Over the weeks Tracy bought a few pictures of her own, and a small CD player. She slowly replaced her record collection with CDs, listening to an entire Joni Mitchell CD without anyone constantly remarking how childish and tedious it was, and finally demanding she put on headphones. She bought another laptop, charging it to their joint credit card. She lay in bed, talking openly with Paul, usually with her hands in her panties, until he told her to take them off.

She was happy – until one Friday evening, about four weeks into their separation, when she was startled to hear a key turning in her lock. Kyle still had his key. She hadn't thought about it since he had needed to come in sometimes to get his things while she was at work.

He had been so adamant about not wanting to see her ('You're nothing but a source of pain to me now,' he had proclaimed dramatically) it never occurred to her he might come over while she was home. Why hadn't he called if he needed something?

Maybe it wasn't Kyle, but some burglar who had somehow gotten a copy of her keys? Tracy stood quickly, moving toward the phone. She could call 911 before they got in the door, but the door opened.

Her relief was palpable when she saw it was Kyle. She almost felt affection toward him at that moment. He looked so familiar, the tall gangly boy she had known for so many years, his dark blond hair tousled making him look like a little kid.

"Kyle!" she said, more warmly than she might have, if she hadn't been glad to trade him, in her mind, for a burglar with murderous intent. "What are you are doing here? Something you need?"

As he came closer, she saw that he didn't look so much the carefree young boy any longer, but unnaturally flushed, and his eyes were bright, the pupils pinpoints, like shiny metal balls at the center of pale blue irises.

"Yeah, something I need. That's right. Something I need."

She didn't understand what he meant, but she did understand the menacing tone. The man must be high on something, or drunk, or both.

"Look, Kyle," she began, trying to sound tough. She was going to say this was her house now, and he had better leave, but her words died in her throat as he came toward her, his hands out, moving fast.

Before she could react, he had her in his arms, and was roughly trying to kiss her. She smelled gin on his breath, and something else, something bitter that she couldn't identify. She struggled to get out of his grasp, but Kyle was strong, certainly much stronger than she.

"Stop! What are you doing!" Tracy spluttered and struggled, trying to get away from him.

"I'll tell you what I'm doing, bitch – what I should have done a long time ago. I know what you like, don't forget. I know you like it rough, you sick cunt. Well, I'm gonna give it to you, just the way you like it!"