door
they will say you shouldn’t have been there. you should have gone straight in the door, well before closing time, keys firmly-wedged in the hand, phone free, eyes straight, not flickering to the sides. dress modest, mirth indiscernible. should have critically read the scene: shouldn’t have paused under seductive traffic lights, near the kerb (the connotations), at midnight, leaned against a streetlight (yet more). should not have rolled that cigarette, taken a call in the crisp midnight air, enjoyed the fragrant breeze from the river. shouldn’t have swayed a little tipsily as you rolled on your feet, dragging on your cigarette, laughing merrily at the friend-drama playing out in your ear. (make yourself invisible). should have been more keenly attuned to the car slowing to a crawl. should have immediately noted the menace with which it pulled close to the kerb. should have moved away more quickly as the occupant first rolled down the window, then made to get out of the car. should have worked on your reactions, far too slow. (you should have been prepared). should have alerted the driver of the second car, beeping to clear the road. at the screeching of tyres, the engine roaring, the car turning and coming back at speed, you should have then run, rather than allowing yourself to become frozen to the spot. (you sent the wrong message). should have had the presence of mind to tell your friend, still on the line, to call someone. should have bravely suppressed the deep lurch of your stomach. should have calmly noted your escape route and, like a she-warrior, sprinted to safety. (should have been prepared). should have summoned that innate female power to shield you from the awfulness of his voice, sickly cajoling, only wanting to talk, take a spin. should have stopped your frantic heart from exploding in your ribcage. controlled your breathing, stalled the physical panic that dropped your phone, caused your arm to scrape viciously along the wall.
should have thought/reacted/screamed/fought/fled/listened/stayed at home. should have remembered his face. should not have sought out safety, at your own front door.
should have not fallen painfully onto your knees over the threshold. should have gone straight upstairs, suppressing all emotion, deftly dismissing first the flimsy platitudes, then the bellowing threats. you - good time girl/frigid bitch/whore - should not have slumped shaking, bleeding, in the porch as, for a slow hour, the car’s engine sounded with a low menacing hum, punctuated by terrible knocks. he can hear you breathing inside the door/he knows where you live/he will be back. you should have told someone.
You should be thankful that Nothing Happened.
Carrie Griffin is lecturer in English at the University of Limerick, where she was editor-in-chief of The Ogham Stone, 2016-2021. Her work was shortlisted for the Allingham Flash Fiction prize (2021). She blogs at withmy50p.wordpress.com.