Save Her by Abigail Osborne (i can read books .txt) 📕

had presented her with the silky green dress, her instinct was to refuse it. She had plenty of clothes; she did not need him to waste his money on her. But he played dirty and looked at her with puppy dog eyes, pulling the cutest face that he could muster, and she smothered her protests. The only shoes she had to go with this dress, she had lent to Sophie. Why she had felt the need to borrow Flora’s shoes when Sophie owned hundreds of pairs of shoes and Flora only had a couple. Sam had tossed her the spare key and told her to go and get them.

Standing in Sophie’s bedroom, Flora was stunned. Obviously, the stylist for Buckingham Palace had been here. A huge bed dominated the room, soft silk curtains draped regally behind it. Gold leaf adorned every available surface, the bed, the bedside tables, the wardrobe and the dressing table. Even the walls had been decorated with matching gold-leaf designs. The gold sparkled in the room enhanced by the muted tones of the cream walls and furniture. Flora turned in slow circles, gaping in awe. Her eyes were drawn to the chandelier hanging from the ceiling, layer upon layer of crystals gleamed in the waning sunlight. She cautiously moved towards the majestic dressing table and sat down on the small stool. The mirror was framed with ornate lions made of gold, so lifelike she half expected them to turn and look at her. It was a room fit for a princess. The level of detail was astounding.

Jewellery boxes were lined up along the bottom of the mirror. Her heart lurched when she saw a battered silver box at the end. Flora remembered buying it at a charity shop for Sophie when she was around thirteen years old. She’d been so embarrassed as it was obviously used, she tried hard to clean all the smudges off it but to no avail. But Sophie was her only friend, the only one at school that would give her the time of day and she had wanted to get her something special, even though it would have been easier for her to find a golden goose than get money out of her aunt. She’d spent a whole fortnight checking under the sofa and down the sides of it for any spare change and finally scraped enough together to get something for Sophie.

I can’t believe she kept it all this time, thought Flora.

The sound of a laptop notification drew her attention. Sophie’s MacBook was open on what looked like Sophie’s side of the bed. The bedside table held a framed photo of Flora and Sophie as sixteen-year-olds.

Curious, she went over to the laptop and saw the screen was still on. Sophie must have left in a hurry and forgot to shut it. Flora reached out, intending to close the laptop when she saw the word ‘diary’. Every moral fibre she had inside of her screamed at her to shut the screen and walk away. But the temptation to peek into Sophie’s innermost thoughts was alluring. Flora closed the notification that lingered on the screen – Sophie had sent herself an email reminder to transfer an important document to a client. With the notification gone, Flora could see the whole screen. She began to read.

I read somewhere that the best thing you can do when you are in a situation like mine is to write it all down. That way, when the beatings become so frequent that they begin to blend into one, you have something to refer back to. Perspective they call it. So instead of a normal diary that I would look back on to see what I was doing that day, I would be able to recall whether I had been pushed down the stairs or simply slapped around the face that day. I am also writing this because if someone other than me is reading, it will mean in all probability he has killed me.

It may surprise you to know that it took a long time for me to hate my husband. I was not one of those women taken in by a nice man who then turned out to be a thug. No, I knew exactly what I was getting into from the very first time I met him. I just didn’t care. He walked into my life with the confidence of someone who knew they were at the top of the food chain. And suddenly the world around me stopped being ordinary. I just knew that his ambition and drive matched mine and that together we would be an unstoppable team. That is what I reminded myself when I lay beaten on the floor the first time it happened. Even when I scrubbed at the puddle of my own blood, trying to stop it staining the carpet.

They say it takes sixty-six days for something to become a habit. It took around thirty-seven for the flinching to stop. I no longer cower when I recognise the shift in atmosphere or when I see the muscles tense and the arch of his brow, the precursor to monumental levels of pain. But the inevitability of what is to come does nothing to dull the pain. In fact, my pain is doubled because I am imagining the pain before it comes, then I am experiencing it again, the full force of it, when the blow strikes. My husband is the stereotypical wife-beater. He is sure to aim for places that can be hidden by clothing. If he becomes particularly enraged and this causes him to slip up, we sit down and rehearse my lines until I can confidently describe slipping in the bathtub or falling down the stairs. This does not happen often, as he does not want to risk his reputation.

The futility of my situation is becoming harder to ignore. I am an intelligent woman, as shrewd at business as my husband. Which means I know that I cannot