IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT

GEMMA:

I ought to leave. I would if it wasn’t for the dog. Bastard. Him…Jamie….not the dog. I love that dog. Which is why Jamie treats him so badly. The only living creature, in a house full of living creatures, which cares about me…my beautiful, faithful, loyal Timmy.

If humans could have love affairs with their pets…in a totally appropriate, non-sexual way of course….I’d bloody well marry my dog, my Tim.
The only living being in our house that cares whether I live or die……well if I wasn’t around, who’d feed him and walk him every day?

And of course, he’s always there to listen when I need to offload. Which is often these days.

Not that I cry any more. I gave that up long ago. Haven’t shed a tear in nearly eight years….not over him and what he does, anyway……I might spend most of the X Factor or Britain’s Got Talent sobbing and sniffling into my sleeve, but I don’t give him the satisfaction…..no matter how hard he thumps me. Or kicks me. Or pushes me down the stairs. Or worse….what he says to me.

No, I never cry over the things he says to me. Not anymore. Maybe that’s why he hits me so hard after he’s finished the insults and the verbal abuse.

Mind you….I give as good as I get. Don’t leave him unmarked. Not physically of course….I’m not as big, fat, strong or ugly as him, so my bare knuckled punches barely scratch his rhinoceros-skinned surface. Even with the knuckle dusters. Joke….where would I get knuckle dusters from? In my size anyway. But I’ve honed my words to a pretty sharp and vicious edge over the years and I use them where and when I need to…or can.

Weapons of choice….if one can’t have those, one must use weapons of necessity. And I know that they work, because one word from me will effect a kick down the stairs or a smack across the mouth, or a shove into the nearest corner of a door even if he hasn’t got around to the abusive swearing at me first.

And he’s so fucking easy to wind up! I tell him the kids aren’t his (which isn’t true of course, because if it was, it wouldn’t be half so much fun seeing the look on his face), or that I only married him because the girls at the office bet me I could never get the commitment from him, or that he’s only in the job he’s in because he couldn’t find anything worthwhile to do with his life.

Works every single time. Every single time. So I suppose I deserve everything I get in some ways. I mean, not always, but a lot of the time. Because it’s not always self-defence any
more, see. And it did used to be…most of the time.

But over the years, I’ve learnt that offence is the best form of defence. And the former in all meanings of its definition….go on the offensive by being as offensive as possible. Before he’s had time to start it himself. Ok, it might mean a crack in the mouth, a wall in the face but it’s better than being a victim isn’t it? Wouldn’t you say? Better than letting him take control.

Why should he always be the one to decide when the violence is going to start? I put a stop to that little power trip years ago.