Freedom 33

You once told me that we were like two sides of the same coin; you wandering the earth searching for a permanent home and soul-mate whilst I longed to escape the confines of my perfect domesticity.

You told me your greatest fear was to grow old and die alone with neither a loved one to hold your hand nor a child to validate your existence. Mine was to die without having lived outside the conventions of polite society, without even having nudged the parameters of this ordered life for a glimpse of my true self.

And so, my friend, we wrote to each other every day, both of us eyeing the greener grass whilst trying to convince ourselves of how fortunate we were to be in our respective positions, so envied by the other.

But I never appreciated the full extent of your sadness and when you embarked on your next globe-trotting adventure in the Far East, I smothered my resentment and continued the school runs and supermarket trips, sinking wearily into the sofa every evening, then waking restless from elusive dreams.

The news of your suicide reached me yesterday, two days after I had picked up your latest email, which I admit is now much clearer in hindsight. Another member from our internet forum broke the news after she had read about the tragic death of an Englishman abroad in her local newspaper. We all expressed our dismay and loss on an appropriate thread whilst privately, my heart plummeted and smashed into a thousand pieces as I felt the noose of my incarceration squeeze tighter against my throat. How selfish of me to dwell on my solitary melancholy now that you had abandoned me for those greener heavenly pastures.

It is almost half past eight in the morning. Paul has already left for work, after another wearisome quarrel, and both the children are at school. I pull my dressing-gown tighter across my chest to banish the early morning chill and pour myself a strong cup of tea before reading, once more, your final words to me.

"Dear Maddie,

I feel as if I am being swept along helplessly by a strong current towards an enormous waterfall. But the curious thing is that I am not struggling to avert this disaster, indeed I feel a certain comfort in just letting go and seeing where the rapids takes me. This must be what a baptism feels like; submerging your fears and uncertainty in the cool, fresh water then emerging purified and cleansed of self-doubt.

I have no real responsibilities to keep me from exploring this path, which at this particular juncture in my life appears to be the only way forward. But before I leave you, I give you this: fight, my friend, to recapture your aimless soul - for claim it you must, before the rot of bitterness and regret consumes not only you, but all those around you.

Wherever you go, my dear sweet Maddie, I shall always remain with you.

Oliver x"

I switch off the computer, lean back in my chair and close my eyes, pushing away all thoughts of the banal obligations that preoccupy my dreary life: shopping lists, daily menus, PTA meetings, extra-curricular activities, perfunctory intercourse, housework. Instead, I try and focus on the precise chain of events that led me to this prison.

Of course, when I met Paul at university, how could I have known that the intoxicating and meaningful love we made in those early days and that our ensuing dreams of a fruitful union would result in the daily drudgery of my life now? I used to glitter at parties, flitting skilfully from man to woman, charming all and sundry with my sparkling wit and intellect, rising refreshed at dusk and falling sated and happy into my bed at dawn.

Unencumbered, I would catch the midnight showing of a summer blockbuster in Leicester Square with a group of friends then wander through Chinatown in search of a sweaty nightclub tucked away in an obscure backstreet of Soho. I could spend hours alone on a Sunday at the Tate or the National, drenching myself in all the beauty and culture that a vibrant city has to offer the young and idle.

Paul and I used to travel lightly before the days of highchairs and nappies, with nothing more than some cash in our pockets and an overnight bag. We would talk into the early hours of the morning about exploring the world together and we enjoyed each other's company on equal footing with the reassuring knowledge that either of us could walk out of that door anytime we desired with no baggage to anchor us.

Then the years caught up with us and, in our perceived maturity, Paul and I began to think about the next steps of marriage and children as our parents and grandparents had done before us. How naïve of me to think that I would remain the same care-free happy person I was back then, and that the balance, so finely tuned in our relationship, would never shift. Diligently, we started to build our nest and midday post-coital conversations about skiing in Chamonix were replaced by afternoon property viewings in the right catchment areas.

Somehow, it was tacitly agreed that Paul should continue climbing the corporate ladder whilst I stay at home to raise the children. So as he proceeded to flourish at the office surrounded by his sycophantic and opportunistic peers, my brilliant mind was left to stagnate in the unforeseen wasteland of spousal and maternal hell, devoid of my former friends who were equally plagued by their own arbitrary lives.

Paul cannot understand my misery and tears. On paper, our domestic life is perfect. He thinks me selfish and ungrateful, yet he cannot see how I have become a slave to the needs of my family, that I must sacrifice my personal growth and happiness in order that they may fulfil theirs. I am in a constant state of anxiety and fatigue as I strive to be the perfect wife and mother whilst struggling to retain my identity; an impossible task when daily conversations revolve around cartoon characters, and the highlight of my day is finding discounted produce at the supermarket. The children know the exact pitch at which to scream to bring on a migraine and dinner-time is its own special brand of torture.

Then Paul returns late again from work in an effort to avoid my ugly moods, which merely fuels my antagonism, and thus we spend the evening in either fiery conflict or icy civility. Paul is blind to how lonely I have become and how this has festered into resentment towards his uninterrupted weekend lie-ins, his lengthy gym sessions, and the peaceful private hours he affords himself late at night after the children have gone to sleep and I have crawled exhausted into my separate bed, too tired to face another disappointment.

And now you, my precious Oliver - who I stumbled upon one tedious morning whilst browsing the online chat-rooms for conversation and companionship, who for nine months patiently listened to my anguish over my invisibility, who shared my despair and made me feel revered and whole again - you have gone. I am, once more, alone in my cage and for a brief moment I consider the path of your release.

I open my eyes with sudden clarity.

I refuse to die this way.

I choose to live.

Berlin.

I always wanted to delve into the seedy underbelly of Berlin.

I book a flight for that afternoon and pack a small suitcase, leaving a note for Paul with a vague explanation of how the latest argument has pushed me over the edge and I how I now need some time to myself. Even at the point of betrayal, the dutiful wife and mother in me promises to contact him the following day, adding that I have asked his sister to help with the children during my absence and that I will be taking up an offer to stay with an old school friend by the coast. I send a text message to his sister explaining the same and ask her to collect the children from school later that afternoon.

As I close the front door firmly behind me and climb into the waiting taxi, I notice my hands are trembling. I cannot determine whether from fear or exhilaration, but I know that if I falter now I shall not live to see the sun set. There is a momentary pang of guilt as the taxi sets off; not because I am deserting my family, but because I am unable to summon feelings of contrition for doing so. It is not until I am in the air high above the clouds that I begin to feel my clipped wings slowly unfurl.

***

I am running late for the girls' school play and usher them playfully out of the bathroom towards the front door. Paul has promised to meet us there at half past five but his lack of punctuality no longer grieves me, having freed myself of this compulsion to control every aspect of our lives. With the girls safely strapped in their car-seats, I check my lipstick in the rear-view mirror and marvel at how the new blonde highlights form an angelic halo around my face, softening the scratchy lines at the corners of my eyes. I am certainly not a book to be judged by its cover, I think wryly to myself as I head towards the school. I hear the girls giggling in the back, so much happier now that their once over-wrought mother smiles instead of screams at them, hums show-tunes throughout the day instead of weeping behind the bedroom door at night.

Paul has noticed the change in me since my return and savours the buoyant hedonism of my new incarnation, although he has never fully questioned what precipitated it or exactly where I fled four months ago; perhaps a preternatural sense that the revelation would irrevocably damage our fragile relationship. Some things are better left unspoken.

I have saved a chair next to me for Paul and, as the hall lights fade, I crane my neck to spot my daughters amongst the children as they make their entrance. My husband arrives ten minutes later and under the cover of partial darkness he furtively slides a hand under my skirt as he takes his seat. I give him a side-long glance, slowly yielding my thighs further apart so that his fingers brush against the moistness of my naked mound. His eyes glaze and although he stares intently at the stage, I know he is distracted by the memory of our rough coupling from the previous night. He is impatient to return to our bed and I am hungry for his flesh.

You see, Oliver, it was not my domesticity from which I sought to escape after all, but simply my self-imposed morality.

By the second night in Berlin, I had discarded my lofty ethics and fully embraced my lost soul. Now when I eat an over-ripe pineapple, the sweet pungent taste of the willowy brunette from the fetish bar on Urbanstraße lingers memorably on my tongue. Never had I anticipated the thirst I would acquire for drinking the cunt juices of a beautiful woman as she gracefully straddled my face on the lush carpet in the closed back room. I dissolved in her soaking pussy, swirling and sucking each delicious tiny fold, probing her delicate slit with the length of my tongue until she shuddered violently into my face and infused her balmy perfume into my skin.

On the treadmill each morning, perspiration trickles between my bound breasts and I am once again writhing beneath countless damp, greedy hands as they explore the deepest uncharted crevices of my body. I remember entering the sex club, naked and accessible to anyone who wished to have me, my dripping cunny signalling the urgency for a deep hard fuck. Plundered for hours by an eager mob, I crawled back to my hotel and drifted into a deadened slumber, the kind that had eluded me for so long and for which my body now ached in order to heal my broken spirit.

When Paul frantically entered me last night, I recalled the queues of unfamiliar, engorged men filling me with their lustful seed as I lay chained and compliant on the soiled sheets in the dimly-lit underground club. Forced to relinquish control, I had calmly accepted the strangers into my throat, cunt and arsehole as they stretched and marked me, each welcoming assault bringing home the realisation that in order to anchor my trouble soul, all I had to do was let go and simply be.

I exhale with satisfaction at the memories of my emancipation, which must nourish me until my next trip two months from now.

I wonder had you lived, Oliver, would you have applauded my courage in seeking out such deliverance or would you have taken exception for leaving you behind? Was the bold step of committing your heart and soul to an ordinary woman too fearful an undertaking for your foolish ego that you chose death instead to be your steadfast companion?

No matter.

You remain as you promised, my dear friend, locked away in a tiny corner of my heart as we continue to flow spontaneously with the rapids towards our uncertain denouement.

THE END