John Marrs

Without warning, Nina grabs my wrist and digs her fingernails into it. I let out a yelp and feel them pushing deeper into me, pressing my tendons until the pain becomes too much and my hand unclenches from the balled fist it was in. The corkscrew I had partially hidden under my sleeve falls to the table with a clunk. Nina’s hand remains where it is, her nails still drilling into my skin, and I bite hard on my tongue and try not to show her how much she’s hurting me. Eventually, she lets go.

‘Okay,’ I say, ‘lift your leg up’, and she obliges, familiar with our well-practised routine. I remove a key from my pocket and undo the padlock attached to the clamp around her ankle. The chain falls to the floor with a heavy thump. I attach a second, much shorter clasp and chain to her ankle and lock it. This chain doesn’t extend far from the spike. Once again, I have her confined to her bedroom.

I pick up the remote control and switch on children’s TV. The programmes are a bit babyish but I like background noise as I do my homework. Dad says he doesn’t know how I can concentrate with all that noise; I remind him I’m a girl and it’s been scientifically proven that we can multitask better than boys. I read it in Just Seventeen magazine so it must be true. Besides, I’ve only got an English lit essay about the Brontë sisters to finish tonight and they’re my favourites.

My stomach sinks. Already, I don’t like what this box represents: things that I’d rather forget and maybe my daughter doesn’t know. The hinges quietly creak as I lift open the lid. The first thing I spot among the contents is a reminder of the first time Nina broke my heart.

‘Do you even know their names?’

‘They said if I gave them a blow job they’d drive me home.’ She bursts into a fit of laughter as I take a step back, hoping to God she’s joking. I wait for her to admit she’s being crude to hurt me. But she doesn’t. She catches my slack jaw and wide eyes. ‘Don’t look so freaked out,’ she says dismissively.

‘Who are these animals? What are their names?’

Nina shrugs. ‘What does it matter?’

‘Because you’re a child!’

‘I’m fourteen. That’s what girls my age do.’ Her version of fourteen and mine are worlds apart. ‘And I take precautions.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I make them wear a rubber . . . sometimes.’ She opens her eyes, stares at me and lets the statement hang before she laughs again. ‘Oh my God, you think I’m still a virgin, don’t you?’

As I leave, something catches my eye inside the rubbish bin by her desk. I do a double take.

It’s a pregnancy test.

I turn to ensure she is still asleep before I bend over to pick it up. I scan the discarded box’s instructions and my worst fears are realised when I spot two blue stripes in a plastic window. I clasp my hand over my mouth and my knees threaten to buckle beneath me. My chest aches like my heart has broken. I steady myself with the doorframe, put the test back where I found it, leave her door ajar and try to reclaim my breath.

I have stopped loving you. I have stopped caring about you. I have stopped worrying about you. I have simply . . . stopped.

This might come as news to you but despite everything, despite the cruelty, the selfishness and the pain you have caused, I still found a way to care. But not any more.

To all intents and purposes, I’m invisible to the world. I don’t exist, I have expired, I am a ghost.