Safe

I should have known better.

I feel like I’m in prison. In my own house.

There's a photograph of a young woman with long brown hair on the fridge. She has dimples. I know I should recognize her. She reminds me of someone. I am not sure who it is. Sometimes, when the darkness becomes too much, I stand in front of the fridge and stare at the photograph. Somehow, looking at her brings me comfort. Maybe it’s because of her bright smile.

I used to love cooking. Now all the kitchen knives have been hidden away, so I can't find them. Oliver says it’s for my own safety. He gets angry whenever I use the stove. When he's at work, I sometimes sneak into the kitchen and boil water for tea. Before he comes home, I make sure the kettle is empty and that the tea bag is buried deep in the bin.

From the kitchen table, I can see our little garden through the window. It’s a garden I once spent countless hours tending. The garden used to be alive with red and pink roses, geraniums, and tulips. Now even the grass is yellow, and the only things left are a couple of chairs and a broken table. 

I remember the neighbors waving whenever they saw me in the garden. "Hello, Patricia! Thank you for the delicious apple pie!" they'd call. That was before I moved in with Oliver. The neighbors who had become our friends slowly drifted away.

Since I'm not allowed to leave the property anymore, I spend a couple of hours in the garden every day.

I hear Oliver's footsteps approaching the kitchen. He is usually in a hurry in the morning, but he always makes sure I eat healthy food before he leaves for work.

- “Good morning! Did you sleep well?” Oliver asks, as he makes himself a cup of coffee.

I notice he has forgotten to shave and he has dark circles beneath his eyes.

- “Yes. Thank you,” I say, yawning.

- “That’s good. By the way, I'll pick up some groceries after work. For now, we've got avocado and toast you can eat”.

His shirt is wrinkled.

Oliver makes my breakfast. He decides what I eat. If I protest, he says it’s for my own good. He even makes me an espresso. He knows it's hard for me to complain with a cup of coffee in my hands.

Some memories feel as though I’ve imagined them. Breakfasts on Sundays. Omelets. Homemade buns. Laughter fills the room, yet I can’t remember who was laughing.

- “I've packed you a lunch. It's in the fridge, on the bottom shelf next to the bell peppers,” he says.

- “Is it avocado again?”, I sigh.

- “Yes. I told you 15 minutes ago”.

- “About?”

- “You know. Grocery shopping.”

- “Oh. Yes.”

I look at my cup of coffee.

- "Did you notice the picture of yourself that I put on the fridge?," Oliver asks with a smile.

- "Is that me?"

- "Yes." He laugh. "You were beautiful."

I walk closer towards the picture and stare at it.

- “I will be late tonight. We have this project going on. Don’t wait for me.”, Oliver says.

Last year, he started his own business. He’s explained what his company does before, but I can never remember. Something with computers. He usually works ten-hour days. By the time he gets home, he simply collapses onto the couch. Every evening, he falls asleep in front of the television.

- “Oh, the pills! Before I go, you need to take them.”, he demands.

He watches until I’ve swallowed every pill. As though I’m incapable of taking care of myself. In the evenings, after he falls asleep, I sometimes pretend I took them. The truth is, I hide the pills in my closet. He’s been in my room before, but he’s never found them. My room is my sacred place. The only place that still feels like mine.

As he prepares himself to go to work, I quietly follow him into the hallway. As he puts on his shoes, I hand him his jacket. My eyes drift to the dresser in the hallway.

The key cabinet is unlocked.

Oliver always locks it.

My heart starts beating faster.

Oliver puts on his jacket.

I stand still and stare at him.

He turns around and kisses me on the forehead.

- “Take care while I’m gone.”

- “I will, “I answer.

He smiles.

Then he closes the door.

I open the drawer in the hallway. My phone is inside. Next to it lies a yellow note with a phone number written on it. At the top, someone has written, “You can reach me at this number.” I can’t remember who this number belongs to. There is no name attached to it. My curiosity gets the better of me. I pick up my phone and type in the number. Hesitantly, I press the button to call.

But nothing happens.

The phone stays silent.

I try again.

My phone does not react.

Oliver has made sure I can’t use it.

There is no internet either.

I freeze in place, staring at the note. There is something familiar about the note. But I can’t seem to remember. 

I have nobody to call.

There is no way out of this cage.

Or, maybe I have one. The unlocked cabinet with the keys.

I do something I have never done before. I walk towards the cabinet. I look around, afraid that someone will catch me. With shaky hands, I grab the key.

I wonder.

Where will I go?

 I have no place to visit.

Who will find me?

After all, the only thing I know for sure is that I can’t stay here.

A part of me will always remain in this house. The scent of this house will haunt me. But the memories are already fading.

I grip the doorknob and slowly turn it. The door opens.

I take one step outside. Before I leave, I look back one last time.

I walk down the street with heavy steps.

I look at the garden I spent so many hours caring for. Now it feels like my garden is without a mother.

An elderly woman carrying grocery bags suddenly stops. Her eyes widen when she sees me.

- "Patricia? Are you okay?"

I look at her, but I can't remember ever meeting her before.

- "Yes, I'm fine," I say, even though I don't know if it's true.

She seems a bit worried.

- "Where is Oliver?"

I search my memory. Oh, Oliver. Of course.

- "I can't remember where he is."

- "Does Oliver know you're out here by yourself?"

- "I don't know".

She looks around and stares at me.

- “Let me call Oliver. Something doesn’t feel right."

Oliver. I know that name. I just don't know why.

A strange feeling settles in my stomach.

- " Please, don't!" I blurt out.

- "What is it, Patricia? Is there something wrong?"

I try to say something, but the words won't come out.

-“What am I doing here?” I whisper.

- "Do you want me to call Oliver, Patricia?"

I nod, even though I’m not sure why.

She talks with Oliver.

My hands start shaking.

A car pulls into the driveway. I don't recognize the car.

The front door opens.

Oliver runs towards me.

My heart skips a beat.

-"Mom! Are you okay?" he asks while he hugs me.

- "Yes. I'm never alone."

She looks at us and smiles.

- "You are lucky to have such a gentle son, Patricia," she says.

- "Mom?" Oliver looks me in the eyes.

I look back at him.

My son.

He seems familiar.

Safe.