PART I - HELEN

I had a dream / I got everything I wanted / And if I'm being honest / It might have been a nightmare.

I had changed my alarm clock.

Listening to Taylor Swift sing about love every morning seemed wrong.

"Lenny! Breakfast's ready," Dad shouted from downstairs.

"Coming," I said, too quietly for him to hear.

A few seconds later he stuck his head through the door. "You need to get up, Lenny."

Groaning, I sat up in my bed and said, "I am up."

He shot me a glance that said ironically, "I can see that," but left the room again.

I didn't want to go to school.

I would have to face Jamie.

Jamie.

Did I do the right thing?

I remembered when he lay in bed with me for three days when Mom had died. He had brought me food, sent me into the shower, held me in his arms. His safe, warm, beautiful arms.

I sat up. Next to me on the bedside table, was a picture of us in Spain last year, our first joint holiday. We had flown out to Europe two weeks before my parents and had spent those at the Mediterranean.

I sat my feet on the bedside rug, my hands drew circles on the covers. Jamie had given them to me for Christmas, but I was sure his mom had picked them out.

I got up, went into the bathroom, looked into the mirror.

The same mirror, I had seen my puffed, red eyes several times after a fight with him.

The same mirror I examined my body for hematomas after he had pinned me down.

I knew that abuse victims downplay what has been done to them. And I was one of them. I had been aware of what was happening. I had known that it was wrong. And still, I let it slide. He pushed me. He didn't respect my boundaries. And still, it hurt knowing that he wasn't there anymore.

It will get better, I told myself.

It will get better.

Why did I feel like I fucked up? Like this was my fault? That I had ruined this?

Me kissing Sofia added gasoline, yes, but it hadn't been me who had started this fire.

It had been burning for a while now, but I had lived in happy-land. Floated on a pool on an inflatable flamingo while the house burned down right next to me.

I had been thankful for his hands, happy for his arm around my shoulder, his words, his support, his steadiness.

Ignoring that these hands broke me, the arms strangled me, his words hurt me, his support was insincere, his steadiness leaving me crumbling.

I had been in love with the version of him I wanted him to be. The perfect version. His noble, uncomplicated, perfect self.