Little By Little

By Carly Keelan

Reeling from an unspeakable act of violence, Marla turns up in Santorini stippled in bruises and sorrow. As she slowly begins to emerge from the stupor of her trauma, a look back at the two years leading up to this moment reveals the complex and hidden ways in which love can turn toxic. Not only must Marla come to terms with her abusive boyfrien

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carly Keelan
• Release date: Feb 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088125656

Carly Keelan

Carly is a former professional ballet dancer who went on to graduate from University of Wisconsin - Superior. After owning a pilates and yoga studio near Seattle, she packed up her life and went on the road. She has spent the past eight years traveling and living across six continents and the experiences she's had along the way continue to shape and inform her writing.

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Little

By

Little

Carly Keelan

Copyright © 2023 by Carly Keelan

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

First edition

ISBN 979-8-9876055-0-9

To all the people who give me true love

Chapter 1

Greece - July 2018

I arrived in Greece with three giant suitcases that I had to drag one at a time down the stone steps to the gate of my hotel, scraping and bumping, the little wheels spinning furiously, threatening to snap off. Why hadn’t the hotel told me the lobby wasn’t accessible by car? The sun was scorching down on me, a callous blaze that seemed to laugh at my struggle.

Inside my cavernous, white room I stared out across the expanse of sea to Santorini’s infamous caldera, the million dollar view that everyone came here to see. I tugged the curtains closed as if cloth could barricade me against hope. Through the duskiness I crawled into bed and drew the covers up over my head, at last finding what I needed: darkness. Desolation.

Chapter 2

Miami - May 2016

When I first moved to Miami, it seemed like such an adventure to finally settle down, to rent an apartment and buy furniture, picking out a pink velvet couch and a thick furry rug that perpetually shed little clumps of lint across my floor. I unrolled sheets of sticky bright wallpaper along the blank walls, cheery palm trees that were bent over in an endless type of sway. The humidity caused it to pucker and pull over time leaving bumps and grooves across every surface. Texture.

I filled my kitchen with bowls and plates and cutlery that would sit unused for two years, gathering dust behind the sheath of my cupboard doors. I had a gaudily painted mate cup from my trip to Argentina, a bristly cactus atop the fridge that was slowly sucking itself dry, and one blue ceramic mug that was filled with instant coffee each morning. I never once lit the stove top and I only ever peered inside the oven one time to check if it worked. Cooking had never been an interest of mine.

I hadn’t lived anywhere long enough to ever have my own apartment. I’d spent years shuffling between different hotels, Airbnbs, and vacation rentals. Vietnam, Bali, Singapore, the Caribbean. London, Dublin, St. Tropez. Other places, too. Anywhere that seemed exotic and thrilling. I stayed as long as I could. A few weeks. A few months. Until it was no longer exotic or thrilling. When foreign started to feel familiar I knew it was time to pack up my bags and move somewhere further away to a new place that wasn’t yet tainted by boring routines and knowable faces.

Some people called me a nomad, a gypsy, an adventure junkie. I was constantly on the move, filling up the pages of my passport faster than I could keep it renewed, collecting hundreds of entry and exit stamps as I wound my way across every continent. A guy I dated once told me that I had a novelty complex, only liking something - or someone - when it was new and exciting. Maybe he was right, but I got bored with him before I could find out if he was clever enough to know anything about novelty complexes.

Other people called me a runner, as if that were an insult; some kind of deficiency that prevented me from being truly human, like there was something wrong with me for being curious and full of wanderlust. To me, the world was just too vast and inviting to stay in one place for very long, too captivating to limit the number of homes I could have in it. I didn’t think of myself as a runner because I never planned on staying anywhere for more than a few months to begin with. I wasn’t running, there was nothing for me to flee from. I was chasing, seeking out the high of an unconventional jet-set life, always in the process of making plans for my next trip or my next move. Living one day at a time with my bags always packed and a plane ticket at the ready.

But I told myself that Miami would be different, that I would sit still for a bit and challenge myself with the task of staying. I knew that I needed to be more stable in my thirties, needed to settle my life into a type of familiarity that could nurture lasting friendships and set myself up with the security of permanence. And unlike in other parts of the world, my time there wasn’t capped by the limits of visas and tourist stays. There weren’t ceaseless heaps of paperwork needed to affirm my validity there. I could stay as long as I wanted. I could create a real home for once. After years of traveling, journeying through the most desolate and remote places on earth, it felt like the right time to plant some roots in a city where I could grow into a more balanced version of myself. I convinced myself that I’d make a real effort to stay this time.

Chapter 3

Greece - July 2018

When I finally emerged from my bed, I wasn’t sure how much time had passed. The obscurity of my dark room had held still while the outside world had trudged on. My hair was greasy and unkempt, oily strands escaping the clasp of an overstretched hair tie. I rubbed my eyes lazily until wispy little eyelashes feathered across my pillow like the soft fall of snowflakes. My fingertips traced along the curve of my throat, gauging the imperceptible swell of a bruise I had been caressing for days. The dull ache kept me constantly aware, bringing my hand up absentmindedly every few minutes to touch the discolored skin, poking and prodding, testing out the discomfort, pushing a little harder each day to make sure the pain was still there. As if losing the sharpness of the ache meant I also had to lose the feeling of being violated. The pain kept my injuries highlighted to me in a way that others couldn’t see. It darkened the plum splatter of my bruises and raised the swell of distension; the knowledge making it palpable to me, even as it faded and became less detectable to everyone else.

Ignoring the rumble of my stomach, I rolled back over into the plushness of my pillows, my cheek smooshed like dough upon marble, lines creasing the flesh, mapping out my indifferent surrender to sleep.

Chapter 4

Miami - June 2016

My years of traveling - of being a strange person in a strange place - had made me very comfortable going out on my own. I often went to restaurants alone, bringing a book with me and tucking myself away in darkened corners to observe from the shadows, discreetly peering from behind the bindings of my unturned pages. I ignored the sympathetic looks of people who thought it was a hardship to be alone, as if it was something to be pitied and avoided. Their concerned glances full of worry like being alone was a tough break that might be dangerously contagious.

I happily went out to bars and clubs by myself, buying my own drinks and saddling up to the counter waiting to see what kind of turns the evening would take, always eager for novelty to present itself. I loved nothing more than to put down my book and find someone interesting staring back at me, luring me into a deep conversation with their unusual ideas and imaginative thoughts. It’s stimulating in the way that only new encounters can be. I would listen to how people shaped and molded their words into all different meanings, stringing together phrases that they’d probably said a million times before but were, in that moment, original and fresh to me. I could talk to just about anyone. And if I put myself in the right mindset, I could find something intriguing in just about anything I heard. The only conversations I hated were the ones with self-important men who thought they could impress me by making themselves out to be experts on every topic, incorrectly explaining things to me that I already knew. Burying themselves deeply into the pitfalls of their own ignorance. I’d had plenty of practice ignoring the advances of arrogant men who think they are God’s gift to the world and who view a lone woman as an easy target.

The first night I went out in Miami I wore a gold sequin jumpsuit that draped backless down to my waist. I paired it with peacock earrings and six-inch platforms. Understated had never been my style. I curled my blonde mane and then swept it off my back into a cascading pile, a few tendrils curtaining my face and shoulders.

I liked the jealous looks from other women and the way they subtly clung tighter to their men as if sheer proximity could halt wandering eyes. The outright enviousness bolstered my confidence making me aware of just how attractive I was.

But the attention also made me feel self-conscious in a way, like everyone was watching me, analyzing each step that I took and scrutinizing my every move. The clack of my heels on the polished floor sounded deafening to me and I shuffled my feet softly trying to make less noise. If I tripped there would be a thousand eyes following me to the ground. I sucked in my stomach a bit more and pushed my chest forward, putting on the best show of poise that I could. When you always feel like you’re being watched, you always end up performing. In reality, nobody cares. They’re too busy perfecting their own performances. It was all in my head. An invented audience. Imagined spectators.

At the bar I ordered a Moscow mule and sipped on the refreshing spice of ginger. I scanned the bar to assess the prospects for the night, catching the eyes of a couple different men. I tried to seem uninterested, glancing down at my phone as if I had better things to be doing. Part of the act is always looking occupied, hoping that certain men won’t even bother to try.

The first guy to approach me reeked of cologne, the air hanging heavy with his potent scent. His hair was greased back, carefully arranged coquetry. He had on tight pants and an even tighter shirt. I offered the easiest out.I’m waiting for my boyfriend.

He pushed back shrewdly against the lie. Oh, yea? Looks like you’ve been waiting for a while. Sure anyone’s coming? I hated the way a man could so casually challenge me. As if he had the ability to sculpt my words into an outcome he preferred.

Yea, he’s finishing up a work call at home. I leaned into the lie, looking down at my phone as if confirming his delay.

I wouldn’t keep a girl like you waiting. Any guy in this place would snatch you up in an instant. His teeth were too white, sheeny veneers clamoring behind the veil of his stretched lips. He spoke like I was the leftover cash on a counter. Snatched up. Taken hurriedly.

How badly I wished I had a phantom boyfriend who could show up, an imposing figure to tower over that slimy twit and wipe the smug look off of his face. It was exhausting to constantly be on the defensive, always having to guard my aloneness. I was there to meet people who could rouse my curiosity with their inviting conversations. Not to be objectified, reduced to some paltry trophy that the men there were competing for.

Have a goodnight. I tried to say it with a finality that wouldn’t be objectionable, testing out how weighty my words could be. Would he walk away? After a moment of hesitation, sizing up his chances with my pliability, he huffed in arrogance, then slithered his way back down the bar. A rigid bitch wasn’t worth his energy.

Years of experience had taught me that deflecting unwanted advances is a skill that all women have to develop. We’re expected to be polite and gentle. We’re taught to stroke a man’s ego even as we reject him, offering some concocted excuse as a way to shift the blame onto us, making sure he never has to feel inadequate. We’re trained to laugh at dim-witted jokes so we’re not the one who’s humorless. And we’re directed to smile at all the crude attempts of charm that are hurled at us everyday, nodding along pleasantly to keep the peace. It’s an art that we hone and perfect, crafted through relentless practice, because our lives depend on it. Our jobs, educations, and relationships all delicately hinge on if, when, and how we say no.

I had a friend whose married boss had once sent her inappropriate emails, cryptic notes about the sound of her long nails clicking on the keyboard as she typed and the ever-changing shades of her lipstick. She’d initially responded to him hoping if it was just misguided friendliness and not wanting to come across as prim and standoffish. He’d started to comment on more than just her nails, piecing together crass comments on the way her blouse pulled over her breasts and what he could imagine reaching up her skirt would feel like. She panicked; the intuitive recognition of a man crossing the line, seeing clearly how he had stealthy dipped his toes in the water, gauging her innocent receptiveness, and then all at once leapt into the waters of lewdness. It was the feeling of needless shame, the catch of a shallow breath as she analyzed the calculated meanings behind his every word. Her frantic call to me. What should I do? It came in the middle of the night along with the threat of tears biting sharply at her soft, licit eyes.

When she forwarded the emails to HR they claimed her messages saying stoppp!! you can’t say that! were flirtatious and encouraging. They disregarded her words so nonchalantly, because stop only means stop if it’s said a certain way. No is only no if a man is willing to accept it.

She ended up facing severe backlash for her accusations and resigned a few weeks later. There were no consequences for her boss, not even a slap on the wrist. He was promoted the next year and had two more kids with his wife, forever joking about women being too sensitive for the workplace and probably harassing a dozen more throughout the remaining years of his career.

Women know where the line is. We can feel it more than we can see it. It’s a faint divide that we spend our lives navigating, warily treading around the feebleness of male egos. Picking and choosing when to enforce our own boundaries because, apparently men - for all their self-proclaimed acuity - have no clue where the line is. Whether by choice or by true obtuseness, they just can’t see it. So women are left with the task of letting them down easy. It’s a tactful dance of survival. A burden that’s shouldered, more often than not, in silence.

I threw in the towel early that evening in Miami, not interested in spending the rest of my night shooting down slick-haired pricks. The bar had filled up by the time I finished my drink, a loud din of noise that felt trapped in the small space. Go-go dancers climbed up onto the tables cast devilishly in the glow of red lights, their boozy shadows dancing on the walls like demons in a bad dream. Bleary coarseness and smut.

It should have been a forewarning of how nightmarish my years there would be.

Chapter 5

Greece - July 2018

It took substantial effort to finally leave my room. I needed to eat and a shower was long overdue. I wrapped myself in the hotel’s downy bathrobe, folding into the warmth of its weightlessness. Pulling back the handle of the door, I stepped out into the penetrating heat of Santorini. The sunlight’s glare was startling. It stippled banners of color across my vision, little glowworms squiggling in a frenzy of murkiness.

In the lobby, I went to the concierge’s desk, people taking in my disheveled state in high-browed, discreet glances. Part of me didn’t care. But another part protectively tugged at the robe to cover my evaporating bruises. How sad that being bedraggled felt less shameful than being hurt.

Ms. Clift, how may I help you? The man behind the desk’s professionalism was evident as he kept his eyes trained on mine. Only his rapid blinking gave away the discomfort of looking at me.

The phone in my room isn’t working. I’m looking to order room service. My voice sounded unnaturally high like everything I said was a question. I hadn’t spoken in several days other than to shoo away the housekeeper who knocked on my door every morning like clockwork.

I see. I can place an order through to the restaurant, if you know what you’d like? And a repairman will be sent to your room. He lifted the phone toward his ear, looking at me expectantly.

Oh. Um. I didn’t know what was on the menu and the thought of someone coming into my room made me feel suddenly embarrassed. That they would see my bed, ruffled and stained by snot and tears. The toilet seat up from when I had vomited, violent sobs purging my body. That someone would have access to my frailty felt overwhelmingly invasive. Can I just have a burger or sandwich delivered? And a Diet Coke? Is it possible for the repairman to come tomorrow? Each question was an octave higher than the last.

The concierge nodded graciously and let me walk away unquestioned. In my