Once There Were Wolves

by Charlotte McConaghy

It’s obvious now, and has been for a while. Mum was right, she was so fucking right I am embarrassed, and now I have had enough, I have no more forgiveness left.

“Did you follow him home?” I ask. “Is she gonna be okay?” Duncan doesn’t reply. “He was really angry tonight, Duncan.” “Yeah. Perhaps consider the wisdom of antagonizing him.” My mouth opens but the words dissolve. He’s right, and it’s easier to see that with my anger cooled. He’s right, and also not. A man’s anger, his violence, is no one’s responsibility but his own. “When does it end?” I ask. “If no one ever says anything, for fear of him, then when does it end.”

“I’m not minimizing. It’s just that if you paint a picture of him as a monster then you make him mythical, but men who hurt women are just men. They’re all of us. Too fucking many of us and all too human. And the women they hurt aren’t passive victims, or Freud’s masochists who like to be punished either. They’re all women, and all they’re doing, minute by minute, is strategizing how best to survive the man they loved, and that’s not a thing anyone should have to do.”

“Men get taught to expect control but a modern society no longer supports that, so some men feel it slipping and it humiliates them. The humiliation makes them angry, and then violent.”

“Are you … Lainey, are you glad he’s gone?” The answer matters too much. She stares at me. “You’re really asking me that?” I nod. She passes a hand over her face. Then says, “He was my best friend and I loved him and I’ve been a ghost for years. Of course I’m glad he’s gone.”