The Decision: The Truth Revealed

By Marcia Daigo

The Decision: The Truth Revealed is the second in the three-part series, Mental Gymnastics, tracking the stormy relationship between Melissa and Travis.

Melissa has now been married to Travis for seven years and her life is anything but happy. Travis is increasingly controlling. She’s

• Language: English
• Publisher: Conscious Dreams Publishing
• Release date: Mar 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781912551903

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The Mental Gymnastics Series

The Decision

PART II

Truth Revealed

By Marcia Daigo

A contemporary, adult, romantic drama about people who blame everyone but themselves

The Mental Gymnastics Series The Decision: Truth Revealed (Part Two) by Marcia Daigo

Copyright © 2020 by Marcia Daigo

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

First printed in the United Kingdom, 2020

Published by Conscious Dreams Publishing www.consciousdreamspublishing.com

Editor: Rhoda Molife www.molahmedia.com

Typesetter: Oksana Kosovan

ISBN: 978-1-912551-90-3

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my dear departed sister, Sharon Elizabeth James, who was taken from her family far too early. May she rest in peace.

Contents

Chapter One

My Wedding Day

Chapter Two

Like a Bear With a Sore Head

Chapter Three

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

Chapter Four

Do Unto Others as You Would Have Them Do Unto You

Chapter Five

Nothing Is Hidden From Those Who Are Really Looking

Chapter Six

Questions. Questions. Questions.

Chapter Seven

Let the Chips Fall Where They May

Chapter Eight

Time to Wake up and Smell The Coffee

Chapter Nine

People Only Have As  Much Power As You Give Them

Chapter Ten

A New Dawn

Author’s Comments

About the Author

— Chapter One —

My Wedding Day

It was a dry but dull Saturday morning in May and as I walked along my local High Street, I tried to remember the last time I looked forward to or even enjoyed Saturday mornings. As a child, I hated Saturdays full stop. It was the day my mum insisted we cleaned the whole house from top to bottom and get the weekly food shopping done. School uniforms were washed and not having a dryer meant pegging the clothes out to dry on the washing line that stretched the length of the garden. My sisters and I then had the tedious task of watching the weather just in case it started to rain. If it did, that meant running out and grabbing everything from the washing line before they got wet. To make the situation worse, if the weather forecast indicated Saturday was going to be a washout, all our clothes would be put into as many binliners as necessary. My sisters and I – my brother being too young to help – would then carry the bin liners to our local launderette. No matter how much I hated washing and drying, come rain or shine, our school uniforms had to be clean, ready for ironing on Sunday. So, in a nutshell Saturdays were miserable – a never-ending, rigid regime with no flexibility.

Sundays were not much better. The itinerary would start with church in the morning, followed by Sunday dinner and washing the dishes before enjoying a couple of hours of free time. Then there would be the marathon run of separating all the dried clothes into piles for uniforms, daywear, casual wear and underwear. The ironing would start with the school uniforms and take at least three hours. I swore to myself that when I grew up and was living my own life, I would not have a regime where my whole weekend was taken up with washing, ironing, cooking and cleaning!

And I stuck to that promise – for a long time anyway. I did my food shopping and washed my clothes any day of the week except Saturday. I ironed my clothes any day of the week except Sunday. My life was organised so that my weekend was free to do with as I wished. If I wanted to lay in bed all day and do nothing, that is what I did. Then, I met Travis, had my son Lewis, got married and here I am again on a Saturday morning doing the shopping. When I get home, I’ll wash the clothes, dry them – in my dryer – and on Sunday, I’ll do the ironing. There was a part of me that could not believe I was doing everything I swore never to do as an adult. I had become my mother with one fundamental difference – I was not a single parent – not yet, anyway – but that was coming. Deep in thought, thinking about how my life was about to change, I am not sure how long it took for me to tune in to the fact that someone was calling my name.

‘Hi Melissa! How’s married life treating you?’ I turned around and recognised Cheryl, a casual acquaintance.

‘Hello Cheryl,’ I replied, greeting her as she walked towards me and wondering if she had clocked that I didn’t answer her question.

‘How long have you been married now?’ she asked.

‘Eight years,’ I replied.

‘Oh my God!’ she exclaimed. ‘Has it been that long already?’

‘How are you?’ I enquired, wanting to divert the attention away from me.

‘Oh, you know, I’m good, but I suspect I’m not as good as you, Mrs Married Lady!’

We both laughed, exchanged more pleasantries and after a few minutes, said our goodbyes and went our separate ways. As I carried on walking, I mused about the behaviour of human beings and how we convince ourselves that what we are thinking is not apparent to other people. When Cheryl and I had laughed, I was very much aware that we were doing so for different reasons. It was clear that Cheryl was laughing to mask the jealousy she felt about the fact that I had walked down the aisle, something I knew she had wanted to do for a very long time. I was laughing to hide the dismay I was feeling at having walked down the aisle and shackling myself to Travis. Just then, I almost laughed out loud when the adage of ‘those that want it, can’t have it and those that have it, don’t want it’, popped into my mind.

My musings were quickly taken over by thoughts of the things I had to do before the end of the day – food shopping, cleaning, laundry, tasks, all to get ready for the coming week. All these chores seemed to be my responsibility, while Travis – well, Travis did what he always did at the weekend. He organised his time around, eating, sleeping, waking up and having sex. That was in addition to going out for a drink with his friends, or so he told me and watching every televised sports programme going.

A familiar feeling rose in the centre of my stomach. A churning that was an indication that my ire was rising. I had lived with anger for eight years. And, if I allowed the emotion to go unchecked, it would lead to my favourite pastime, which was planning how I would dispose of his body. The first time the thought of disposing of his body popped into my head, I was so shocked and disgusted with myself for having such violent thoughts, it took a couple of days to get over it. It was then I had to admit that what I felt for Travis could not, in any way, be love. How could it be? Whenever the violent thought popped into my head, it was like wrapping myself up in a warm, cosy blanket. It would mean freedom – from Travis. But as I walked towards my car, carrying out the first of my Saturday morning chores, the thought that was just on the periphery of my consciousness was what a difference a week makes.

First stop was the butcher, where I bought some lamb for Sunday dinner. Next was the fishmonger, where I picked up tilapia, snapper, bream and salmon to stockpile in the freezer. Once done, I headed back to my car and drove to the supermarket where I bought the remaining groceries needed for the week. After loading the shopping into the boot, I sat for a minute before starting the engine. Feeling washed out, I realised tiredness was a natural part of my existence. I also had to admit the emotional turmoil I had experienced in the last week hadn’t helped.

The memory of that fateful Friday morning, just over a week ago, when Travis confessed that he had bought a house with the woman he was having an affair with, crashed into my conscious thinking. Since that day, the question I kept asking myself was ‘Who does that?!’ As I sat behind the steering wheel of my car, wondering how I had come to this point, I allowed the emotions to wash over me. If I were the tearful sort, I would have been in floods of tears. Though, whether my tears would have been due to sadness or relief, wasn’t clear.

It was true that I hated my life, and from the minute I said, ‘I do’, a day had not gone by without planning how I was going to get out of the life I had created. For eight years, I had wanted to get out of my marriage and just over a week ago it was over! The saying that life had a habit of throwing curveballs, so be prepared to duck or catch them, was so true. But who could have prepared themselves for the ball I’d just caught? I smiled when I thought about the number of times I’d planned to make Travis ‘go away’ forever. Luckily, the rational side of my brain always pulled me back from acting on my impulses, especially when I thought of what would happen to my son. There were days when I would take total responsibility for the situation I was in because after all, it was my choice to marry Travis. Then there were the days when I wanted to scream and swear at the universe for the mess I was in. I’d often thought it would be great if people could press a button and ‘reset’ the wrong decisions, just like I’d seen my son, Lewis, do when he was playing his Xbox. Sadly, life wasn’t a game, and we could do little more than live with the consequences of the choices we make.

Sitting in the supermarket carpark, enjoying my ‘alone time’, I finally admitted that I had purposely not given myself time to think over the last week. Now, having the space I needed to reflect before returning home, I put my head back on the head-rest of the driver’s seat and closed my eyes, and retraced the steps that led me to this point.

Lewis, aged five

In contrast to my ivory-coloured dress, Simone who was my best friend and maid of honour, and my two bridesmaids wore gold. The flowers that adorned the church were cream with a sprinkling of very pale green. Apart from the fact that I only knew 20 of the 250 guests, the whole thing was tastefully done. Walking down the aisle towards the altar, I couldn’t help but feel a chill run down my spine as I watched Travis standing patiently with his best man Tony. They’d been friends since primary school and Travis trusted him implicitly. I liked Tony but that didn’t stop me thinking I was walking the Green Mile. I remember thinking that with each step, instead of the altar getting closer, it appeared to be getting further away, like a scene from a horror movie where the room looked distorted. I kept trying to convince myself that everything would be fine, but I couldn’t shake the notion that I was walking to my doom. Halfway down the aisle, I stumbled ever so slightly but my brother gripped my elbow, preventing me from falling. I almost froze on the spot but managed to put a brave smile on and continued putting one foot in front of the other until my walk ended. It felt strange when my brother removed my right hand from the crook of his left arm and placed it on top of Travis’ outstretched left hand. I looked at Travis, and the words that came to mind were, ‘Places everybody! Quiet on set! And action!’ It was as though I was playing a role, and it wasn’t really me standing at the altar. I kept reminding myself that I was not being blackmailed into this marriage. I could have said no, but I didn’t. It was therefore ridiculous to feel the way I did, but the feeling of resentment was so overpowering, it took an enormous amount of effort to prevent the smile I was wearing on my face from reducing into a sneer.

As the service began, the thought occupying my mind was the church insisting that brides walk down the aisle on the left-hand side of the person giving them away to and is presented to the groom on his left-hand side. Once the ceremony was over, when the bride and groom turn to face the congregation, the bride should be positioned on the right-hand side of the groom. When I questioned the Pastor about why the church insisted on this formation, she replied, ‘That’s the way of the church’. Following that conversation, I made it a point to find out why. How I wish I had not started investigating.

Growing up as a left-handed child was not easy. My mother hated the fact and did everything in her power to force me to use my right hand. My ‘handicap’ made me feel different right from the start. One day I asked her why it was so important that I use my right hand, and her response was shocking.

‘Nobody in my family is left-handed,’ she said. ‘People who use their left-hand are mean-spirited and evil, and I have enough problems without having to deal with a left-handed child.’

Of course, no child wants to be known as evil, so I learned to do most things with my right hand. This included being able to use a knife and fork, holding my knife in my right hand; holding a pair of scissors in my right hand, holding the sewing needle in my right hand and so on. Unfortunately, no matter what my mother did, I could not master writing with my right hand. As I grew older, I realised she saw this apparent flaw in me as her fault and that somehow God was punishing her. As a result, she ridiculed me no end. Then there was life outside of the family home. I don’t recall a moment when there wasn’t a gasp or an exclamation from teachers, friends or members of my extended family when they realised I was left-handed. With time though, being made to feel that there was something wrong with me, turned me into a champion for anything ‘lefty’.

As I built the case for my cause, it became evident that anything ‘right’ was good, and anything ‘left’ was bad. Even the dictionary’s definition of right was in accordance with ‘what is good, proper or just’. This included being right-handed, using your right hand to shake the right hand of a person and even the ‘forgiven’ ascending to heaven and sitting on the right-hand side of Jesus. In addition, a back-handed compliment disguised as flattery was a left-handed compliment; having a political focus positioned to the left was ‘disruptive’ and even the Seventh Edition of the Oxford Dictionary defines a person who is left-handed as being clumsy and awkward. I also discovered that the tradition of the bride standing on the left of the groom stemmed from the old days of ‘marriage by capture’; to be sure there was no interruption of the marriage ceremony, the groom had to ensure his fighting arm (right arm) was free. Why the church would uphold such a tradition based on women being prevented from exercising free will, is beyond belief. More ridiculous was that if the bride and groom wanted to change sides so that the bride stood to the right of the groom before the ceremony, they had to seek permission from the church to do so.

The Pastor opened the service with a prayer and then asked the guests to be seated. From that moment onwards, I didn’t remember much of what was said. Before I knew it, Travis was holding my left hand, with his right hand poised to place the ring on my finger. Our then 5-year-old son was the ring bearer and I was so lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t even noticed him and his special moment. I saw Travis’ mouth moving and thought I better tune in to what he was saying –

‘...to be my lawfully wedded...’

I tuned out again. I couldn’t bear the thought of hearing him say the words that would legally tie me to the man I knew was a manipulative fucker! He gave the world the impression he cared about others, but in truth, he was totally self-absorbed. I felt the ring slip onto my finger and knew it was my turn to speak.

‘I Melissa Louise Duncan, take you Travis Robert Denton, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, from this day forward, until death do us part.’

Each word sounded sacrilegious, especially ‘until death do us part.’ I knew we would not be together until one of us died…of old age that is. This relationship was likely going to end in divorce way before that. The next thing I heard was the Pastor saying to Travis, ‘You may now kiss your bride.’ As our lips met, I thought to myself Oh my God, you’ve done it. Then my annoyance came back ten-fold when, as we turned to face our guests in the congregation, Travis positioned me on his right-hand side. I looked at him as he manoeuvred me to stand in position and I’ll never forget the look of triumph on his face. There was something about his expression that was very unnerving. At this point though, what was I to do, so I shrugged it off, planted a smile on my face and continued in role, playing the part of a joyful newly-married woman as best I could.

Travis’ controlling personality meant the day was planned and executed without a hitch. Moving to the vestry followed by the best man and maid of honour was seamless. Emerging from the vestry legally bound as husband and wife, I positioned myself next to Travis and together we walked down the aisle smiling and greeting people as we went. Outside the church, the photographer was taking photos of the wedding guests. Simone made sure my hair and dress were perfect in preparation because as soon as the photographer saw us, he was ready to start shooting the happy couple.

The classic Bentley we, or should I say, Travis had hired for the day was parked directly outside the church. Before climbing into the car, I looked around, trying to find Lewis. I spotted him standing with the best man and his children. As we climbed into the back seat of the car, the photographer asked us to look at him for more pictures. Seating myself in the car, Simone gathered the train of my wedding dress, placing it delicately around my legs. There seemed to be a lot of activity happening at the same time. Travis was barking orders at his best man; the photographer wanted to take more pictures; guests who didn’t drive were asking those with cars if there was any room for them to get a lift to the reception. And as all this was going on, I just couldn’t seem to connect to any of it. Instead, I focused on the chauffeur who was composed and waiting for instruction. I wondered what he was thinking as he sat so calmly, unaffected by the mayhem going on around him. At that moment he looked up in the rear-view mirror and caught me looking at the back of his head. He smiled, and his expression was sympathetic. I smiled back, convinced he knew how I was feeling. Then I just sat quietly until at last Travis turned to the chauffeur and said, ‘we can go now’. Making our way towards the venue hired for the reception, I looked out the window and marvelled at how everything looked the same, but for me, everything had changed.

‘That went well, didn’t it?’ Travis asked.

I didn’t respond.

‘Well? Didn’t it?’

‘Yes it went very well,’ I eventually stated.

‘What’s wrong with you?!’ Travis asked in a tone indicating he was trying not to get pissed off with me.

‘Nothing!’ I responded hastily, feeling the need to appease him, while at the same time kicking myself for being a coward and not telling him what I really thought.

We were nearly at the reception hall when Travis said, ‘I have told the photographer to round everybody up so we can get the photographs over and done quickly. I’m hungry, and I intend to be sitting down and eating at 5:30.’

I did not respond.

The wedding photoshoot in the gardens of the venue went smoothly with everyone in position, at the right time, and at the right angle with perfect smiles. The venue we had chosen…Travis had chosen…was an ornately decorated old manor house, situated in 150 acres of manicured lawns – perfect for when the children had eaten and wanted to play. The reception started right on time. Travis and I waited in one of the ante-rooms just off the main hall to give our 250 wedding guests time to be seated. As we entered the hall and made our way towards the top table, we were greeted with cheers and salutations.

The first indication that life was going to become more difficult came at the time for the speeches. As planned, Tony took his place and gave a predictable best man monologue, followed by a procession of guests, many of whom I didn’t know of course, making standard wedding day speeches. Caught up in the moment, I leaned closer to Travis.

‘I want to make a speech,’ I whispered in his ear.

‘No, you don’t,’ he whispered back harshly. ‘Brides don’t make speeches at their wedding.’

‘What,’ I whispered rather loudly, ‘are you telling me that I can’t make a speech at my own wedding?’

‘Lower your voice,’ Travis replied with a warning tone, but still smiling so no one would know we were having a disagreement, especially my mother, who was sitting to my right. ‘I planned a traditional wedding and in a traditional wedding the bride does not make a speech.’ He sat up straight in his chair and ignored me as he continued to listen to whoever was now at the microphone congratulating us on our nuptials.

I was still in shock when it was Travis’ turn to make his speech. Though it was stomach-churning to listen to the drivel coming out of his mouth, I was sure to smile on cue. At one point during the speech, Travis looked down at me, and I could tell he knew I was pissed. It was the first time I noticed that when he was daring me to piss him off, his pupils glinted like broken glass. Even though I considered myself a strong woman, I knew when not to push. Travis read my body language and knew he had won. Appalled that I had become a shrinking violet, cowering in the presence of my alpha male husband, was an understatement. I wanted to scream.

The rest of the reception went by in a blur. I allowed myself to be manoeuvred to the cake stand for the necessary cutting of the cake. Once the cheering and clapping had died down, somewhere in the distance, I heard the master of ceremony say, ‘The bride and groom will now open the dancefloor with their favourite song.’ Travis led me to the middle of the dance floor. As he held me