If’n I was sitting in my living room and you were creeping downstairs in your favourite perfume, pinched from the dressing table where you used to sit, before you … went away, before you beat me bloody, before they dragged you off – kicking and cursing, before … all of those things.
If’n I heard your footsteps on the stairs, coming closer and closer to the bottom where you’d just need to turn slightly to the left, and then to the right in order to see me sat here in my shirt and pants – the same ones you brought me for Christmas the year before it all went wrong.
If’n I imagined that you were wearing that dress – the one you always used to wear when you wanted something from me, when you were in a persuading mood rather in a taking and mocking mood, and that you were carrying the same bat you used to break my body once before.
If”n I was to hear you and, more than that, see you coming around that corner and into the room where I were sat, waiting patiently for my chance to move you and remove you from my life forever, like you were ketchup on my favourite shirt or blood underneath my nails.
If’n there was my kid, the one that was our kid, but is now, in my mind, my kid alone, to think about and the think I was to think about him was him growing up without fear that you could turn up at any time without announcing yourself, without taking any notice of the restraining order.
If’n I’d just heard that you’d escaped from the secure mental facility and had killed a guard as you went and had left another one with so little blood in her body that even though they kept pumping it in as fast as they could it was coming out even faster from the slashes you left in her.
If’n I were to raise my hand, the one with the hard lump of metal in it, the one with the finger on the trigger and, point this thing in your direction with barely a shiver in my arm or a quiver in my voice as I told you to leave this place and never come back unless you wanted to be cold, cold, cold.
If”n I were hear and see and know and do all of these things, would it change one little part of your plan or would you still do the same thing that you’d always done, which is to bluff and bluster your way closer and closer, seeing the tears coming out from my eyes as you crept onward.
If”n I’d had enough of this.
If’n I could do it right.
If”n I were strong …