Blurred Roses: A story of love and violence

By Emma Clarke

Blurred Roses is a compelling, harrowing story about love, violence and the damage people can do.

'I didn’t tell. For years I didn’t tell. And then I had to tell one person because I thought that if I didn’t talk about it, I was going to go mad. And then one person became two people, became three. But I didn&

• Language: English
• Publisher: Identity Withheld Books
• Release date: May 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781910306048

Book preview

BLURRED ROSES

A story of love and violence

Also by Emma Clarke

You Are Here – a mindful travel journal

That Was Now

Virtually Me – your manifesto for online life

For children:

This Book Stinks – a travel journal for daring explorers

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An Identity Withheld publication

First printed in Great Britain in 2017

By Identity Withheld Ltd.

This edition published in 2017

By Identity Withheld Ltd.

Copyright © Emma Clarke 2017

The right of Emma Clarke to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the copyright owner.

ISBN: 978-1-910306-05-5 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-910306-04-8 (ebook)

Cover illustration by Emma Clarke

Typeset and design by Rebecca Perry

RebeccaPerryDesign.com

Identity Withheld Ltd’s policy is to use papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products and made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

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For my cousin Charlie.

My almost-brother.

I didn’t tell. For years I didn’t tell. And then I had to tell one person because I thought that if I didn’t talk about it, I was going to go mad. And then one person became two people, became three. But I didn’t tell them everything.

I don’t like talking about it even now, after all these years. When I hear it out loud, I feel sick. I’ve written this to be a record, a testament of what happened. I need to do this to honour my bravery and to remind myself that I will never ever let this happen to me again.

I remember my marriage in scenes. Sharp little memories slanting through my mind like splinters of ice. I remember what I was wearing, how the room smelled, whether I was hot or cold. I remember what he said and what he did to me. The memories come up from inside and engulf me sometimes, like a storm. And then it’s gone just as quickly as it came.

There are great swathes of time that I don’t remember. At least, I don’t think I remember it. There are just yawning blanks. There’s so much to remember but blocks of time have become a whiteout.

I had to tell my solicitor what happened though. When I started the Divorce, I tried to explain what my marriage had been like. I wasn’t very articulate and she gently suggested I might find it easier if I wrote it down. I had to tell her all of it, as much as I could recollect, eventually.

The telling doesn’t make it easier.

* * * * *

— Why did you make me a coffee?

— You said you wanted coffee.

— I wanted tea. I said I wanted tea.

— I could’ve sworn you said coffee.

— I didn’t.

— It’s no problem, I’ll make you a tea.

— I’m so sick of this happening all the time. You don’t care about what I want, what I need.

— I’m sorry – I –

— Listen. Very. Carefully. I never have coffee in the afternoon. In the morning it’s coffee and then in the afternoons I switch to tea. I’ve been doing it for years. It’s my routine. You know that.

— I didn’t know that.

— Do you know it now?

— Yes.

— I mean, how many times do I have to tell you? I mean, how stupid are you?

* * * * *

I’m a regular, suburban, middle-class working mum. I have my own business. I’m self-sufficient. The thought of relying on anyone for anything essential terrifies me. I’ve always been independent. Maybe that comes from being an only child. Perhaps if I’d have had siblings I’d have been used to sharing responsibilities. People always say that only children grow up selfish because they’ve never learned to share. I think the opposite is true. I think only children over-share out of an insecurity that they might be thought of as self-centred and greedy. There’s an anxiousness in an only child. The fear of always being an outsider, of never really belonging, properly, in a group of peers.

In my marriage, I was the breadwinner. My husband did casual work, temping and the like. He never held a job down for longer than about three months. He was in advertising. He was an account manager. He was a people person.

He’d wow them at job interviews. At least, that’s what he told me and I can believe it. He’s handsome, witty, clever, charming. My God, so charming. And he’d tell them all the things he knew they wanted to hear, like he was an identikit person assembling the right version of his personality for that person, that situation so he’d be the best fit. He was a charlatan, a mercurial, beautiful, terrifying chameleon.

He’d tell me that he’d made some great mates at work and that they all thought he was amazing in meetings. That the MD or the Creative Director or someone had given him a pat on the back or told him that he was a real asset, a real gem and they were lucky to have him. I don’t know