Young Love

The recently published Australian Femicide Map is the saddest map you will ever see. It was meant to trigger an emotional reaction. I searched for my hometown.

And then it came flooding back. Memories. Half-truths. Disorientation.

They were young. His attitude was getting worse. He was always stressed about something: his job, his car, his studies, his gay father, his Christianity, his future. 

She gave him a free pass. He gave her a black eye. 

She stayed out late. He threw her down a flight of stairs. 

She joined a club. He threatened her friends. 

He punched a hole in the door but told her that he loved her. 

He wasn’t always mean and she wasn’t always afraid of him. 

But she became cold and distant. She didn’t recognise herself.

She would lie. 

She would hide. 

She would cry. 

Some say the more optimistic someone is, the happier they’ll be and the longer they’ll live. But maybe some of us have no other choice. Without optimism, we wouldn’t be able to breathe. 

We always hope for better days.

What was he doing here? She was fuming. With a knife in her clenched fist, she opened the screen door and edged her way onto the dimly lit porch. He saw the knife and chuckled. 

I’m not going to hurt you. 

I don’t know that.

Can we talk? Let’s go for a walk. 

Now? In the middle of the night? Fuck no. Come back in the morning when you’re sober.

While it bothered her that he was there, she somehow felt responsible for him. 

It had been months. Her anxiety had dissipated. In his letter, he had written some puritan bullshit about her body being a temple. Every time you share yourself with another man, it will be tainted. That’s not how temples work, asshole.

Can we just move on? 

Let’s have a game of tennis.

Whack.

You’re never going to be happy you know. You go about things the long way.

Whack.

That’s my choice. 

Whack.

Why are you so difficult?

Whack

I’m not!

Whack.

You think you know everything.

Whack.

I really don’t. I’m still learning. We both are.

Whack.

And then it was over. She didn’t end up as a statistic on some map. Those two people can only ever exist in a white, stretch-marked timeline. 

Now she knows of rich, vibrant love that delights and comforts. His smiles are her smiles. His laughter is her laughter. His victories are hers.

Love is kind.