She closed the door firmly and limped uncertainly into the early morning darkness. He wouldn't come after her this time, not this time.

As the comforting darkness of the morning enveloped her she sighed with a relief that she would not, this time, have to run the gauntlet of the sympathetic looks of her neighbours. Neighbours who, despite their sad, knowing looks, would happily bestow welcoming smiles and salutations as he passed-by on his way to her darkness. Would they miss her? She had no friends - he didn't encourage friends. In all that time, she had never had friends. No one to miss her.

She paused to ease her aching hip; a reminder, she was sure.

The morning was cold and silent - in its stillness she was suddenly aware of the moonlight - in its sharpness the shadows' stood stark, each in its own corner; each waiting to pounce, each waiting to punish her for her sins. He would lurk, silently, in the darkened corners of the house they shared - she shivered but not with the cold of the morning. She remembered.

She had never deserved the pain and misery that he heaped upon her at every opportunity - of that, she was sure. Or was she?
Her family had loved and admired him so; maybe it was her fault - perhaps she did deserve to be punished. Perhaps she was bad. She no longer saw her family. He didn't encourage it. How much had changed in so little time? No. She must go on now. She couldn't turn back, and he wouldn't follow. He couldn't follow this time; of that she was certain.

Moving once more along the familiar, silent street, looking cautiously left and right, she wordlessly said goodbye. This street that had been the centre of her world when first he led her to number 93. How could she have felt so lucky, she thought, then.

She would not turn back this time. Around her, the curtained windows of the houses looked down, their mute stares framed as in disapproval of her escape. She felt the pain but would not turn back. Never. He could never follow her now. Never. Not this time.

The walk along the street she had so intimately travelled for so many years, now seemed interminable; every step to freedom was slow and painful. She stopped again to ease her aching hip - 'twas a small price to pay, of that she was sure.
A movement to her left, in the shadows. A coldness like ice spread from her head down as her heart banged noisily in her chest. Who is there? she asked silently. Please, not him. It mustn't be him, she prayed as her whole body shook in a fear that she thought she had left behind when closing the door on number 93.

Silently from the shadows appeared a fox, still black in the moonlight. It casually looked at her, sniffed and went on its way; trotting casually in the direction from which she had come.
She had never heard of, or seen, foxes in their neighbourhood. Never. Maybe it too was aware that he would no longer walk the streets - yet another creature that felt safe that he was no longer around. She felt her heart slow.

The moon's silver light was slowly replaced by the sun's yellow glow as, rising above the horizon, it joined her in celebrating her escape, her freedom.
No longer in the dark shadows of the houses, she emerged, towards the bus stop - a sign of warm human existence. No buses would run for a while yet so she knew that, at last, she could sit, rest, and enjoy the solitude, the freedom. Even her hip no longer pained. The bruises would fade. She would never have to see him again.

Number 93 would not be visited for a long time. No one would call. No one would dare - he eventually had that effect on everyone. He would lie, eventually lifeless, at the foot of the stairs until the corruption would be such that only her new friend, the fox, would be aware of his demise.
For the first time in many months she smiled - the first of many, she knew. Time, she told herself, is a great healer: and that time was now - the healing could begin. Ironically, it would be a number 93 bus that would soon take her many miles to her new, happy life.

[THE END]

© scrapyardsummer 2021