Newspaper Clippings

A Story by Victoria

A quiet office, a loss of time and her in the bathroom applying foundation on her darkening bruise. If people understood better maybe it wouldn't have to end like this. The effects of domestic abuse.

Newspaper Clippings

The best sound on earth is that of kitchen scissors cutting through newspaper. It’s sharp and strangely cold, an embodiment of December air nipping at skin. I’m certain my thoughts make their way back to that practically every afternoon, a discovery I fail to ignore over and over. Is it strange to admire a sound? To savour it as if I was listening to a new song? Maybe. I pour my attention into not snipping any words.

It’s quiet. I notice because it normally isn't. Imagining this office is practically impossible without the accompaniment of buzzing machines, ringing telephones and jumbled conversations taking place over desktops. Right now it sounds empty and unused. Like a nursery belonging to an outgrown child. I place my scissors on my lap and c**k my head to get a better listen. A hum is emanating, low and soft. Maybe belonging to the overworked lights or a generator. What I don’t hear are coffee mugs being placed down on wooden desks or the click of dress shoes walking briskly down a corridor. My suspicions have been confirmed. The clippings are left spread out on the coffee table, any shock minimal when I walk out and find the room deserted.

I stand in the doorway for a moment, my hand perched on the frame, and just look. The office is by no means a huge area. Multiple grey and red desks are pushed together in different areas of the room, leather chairs placed awkwardly around them. The dividers were a second thought, and you can tell by the way our heads peak over the top even as we sit. An areca palm with drying tips is propped up on a stake. The water cooler has paper cups strewn along its base. For a place that even looks chaotic, it is strange to feel the absence of people.
My hands reach up to rub my face before I can stop them. It’s a natural reaction I always have under stress or exasperation, but boy is it inconvenient right now. I cringe. I realize immediately that I’ve smudged my makeup. The morning had been spent applying copious amounts of foundation, only to be destroyed in a matter of moments. Considering the force I used to massage my face I also know that the mark is visible. That’s bad. Awful. Someone sees it and I’ll be smothered with concern and questions and prodding. It’s empty in the building, which means that there is the potential of no one ever seeing me. Still, knowing that someone could is greater than any reasoning, and my thoughts wander back to the foundation I keep in my purse. I turn back to the lounge to grab my belongings before pushing my way into the bathroom.

It’s small. Two cubicles, a mirror and one rusted faucet. The lighting is stained a dandelion yellow, but the sky will dim soon and no one will pay enough attention to notice harsh lines. My fingers caress the bruise lightly, but even the innocuous touch makes it pulse with soreness. The unwanted mark stretches from my right cheek up above my brow bone, and is turning an ugly shade of purple. Even I am taken aback by its seeming brutality. I know that it’s bound to fade, but makeup will have to be my saving grace for the time being.

It takes several coats before I can put down the tacky brush, satisfied. If you really focus, the right side of my face gleams an unnatural hue of lavender, but it’s only visible from certain angles. My weight shifts from one foot over to the other. Being alone is such a strange feeling. It wallows in my lower abdomen, a strange mix of butterflies and emptiness. I hold my scissors firmly.

The sound of gentle humming is replaced by brush scraping against tile. Marissa’s laugh is full, her hands resting on both sides of the doorway and gazing at me with her bright eyes.

“There you are,” She begins, the happiness still practically oozing out of her words. I feel nauseous. “How many times has this happened this month? I’m convinced you live here or something.” I can feel my mouth dry out from anxiety and I’m embarrassed to recognize how trapped I feel. My tongue is sandpaper.

“How did you even find me here?” It’s curt, I know. I didn’t mean for it to sound that way, but in the struggle to keep my voice steady I grabbed at anything that came to mind. My heart sinks into my shoes the moment her lips press thin.

“Cass, I was only joking. I saw your tea still on the desk and the bathroom light on. Didn’t take much detective work after that. Really, what are you doing here?” Now she feels bad. Fantastic. My empty laugh bounces off of the stalls.

“I'm fine, just scatter brained,” I say, my hands waving above my head. “Really, I just lost track of time. I’m actually about to leave.” To show what I mean I gesture towards my scissors and the awaiting handbag, hoping she’ll take the hint to go. Instead, she clears the newspaper off the sink and props herself onto it.

“Okay,” She settles with the answer, waiting for me to reveal more before she herself starts prodding. I start to clench my clammy hand around the scissors. “Job offerings?”

“Not for me,” I reply, his memory intruding my already disoriented thoughts. “Davie.” Marissa leans over uncomfortably at the mention of his name. She always does. I don’t think she ever liked him, from the moment they met until she watched me walk down the aisle. For the most part she keeps it to herself, but from the way she bites her tongue I know his nickname is still in good use. David the Douchebag.

“Is everything fine,” She picks non-existent dirt out of her acrylic nails. “With him, I mean.” The panic rises in my chest again at almost double its previous weight.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I…don’t know,” She has to pause for a second, consider the response. I need to dig my toenails into my socks so that I don’t bolt. “You just became weird all of a sudden. Different. You hardly even talk anymore, not even to me.” The humming that used to be a background noise crescendos, almost like it’s trying to embody the tension of our conversation. I wish it would stop. It’s giving me a migraine.

“I told you, nothing’s wrong,” The tone of my voice is notably persistent, viciously cold.

“No, you’re not,” She shoots back, her words an equal competitor to my own. “I know you’re not. I know so much better than you realize, and I can tell that he’s the problem. You do everything for him Cassidy. You’re like his dog or something. This isn’t you.”

“You don’t know me,” My hands are trembling so much the muscles are starting to cramp. Her glare is sharp, mean, and it jumbles up my thoughts, making it hard for me to think at all.

“Yes I do,” A painted fingernail jabs into my chest. “I’m not an idiot, despite what you might think. One day I’m going to come here and find out that you’re gone because he’s done something bad. Something disgusting.” Her ugly mouth keeps talking, spewing out accusatory lies, but I’m not listening. I just focus on her ridiculously straight teeth and plant my feet into the ground. I remember those teeth. When they were crooked and my only qualms were about my social status and when she understood me. Why doesn’t she get it now? She’s selfish. So selfish.

I examine my hands and try to ignore her ringing voice and that yellow light searing into the nape of my neck. My knuckles are blotched with white dots. I try to pour my attention into counting them, but my hands are shaking and I lose track. My blurred reflection stares back at me from the blades of the scissors. With every moment, every word that I fail to process, that humming is increasing, a pounding in my head that resembles a twisted song. A hymn I can no longer block out. I just want it to stop. I want it all to stop. An anguished yell, disembodied and brimming with pain, breaks through my thoughts. It doesn’t feel real. In my mind it sounds distant, a strained echo, but I know there are no windows in our bathroom.

My shirt is damp. All of my attention diverts to that instantaneously. I can feel the liquid soak through the polyester and wet my skin. I have to drag my eyes down to look closer, time trailing slowly and with no seeming end. It’s such a deep red. It almost reminds of a lipstick I used to wear, a colour such a rich crimson that the lightest application would leave a stain for hours. My right hand feels empty. The absence of the scissors is notable, the blades no longer digging into my hot palm.