'My ex sliced off my tongue'
Saturday 4th July 2009
When the phone rang at 9pm, I knew it wasn't going to be good news. Especially when I saw it was my ex-boyfriend. 'What does he want?' I grumbled, as the screen on my mobile flashed with his name, Paul Bratton. I half considered not answering. It was late and I had to be at work at 6am the next morning as a secretary. I was too tired to have another row. But knowing that Paul, 53, wouldn't give up calling until he'd spoken to me, I had to pick up. 'It's late, Paul,' I snapped. 'What do you want?' 'How dare you turn my family against me!' he roared down the line. This again.
When we'd split up a few days earlier, I'd moved out of the house we shared and had nowhere to go. My daughters, Shanda, 34, and Latisha, 30, lived too far away for me to get to work every day, so Paul's cousin, Sandra, 56, had offered me her spare room until I found somewhere of my own. 'I'm only going to be here for a few weeks,' I told Paul. 'Anyway, Sandra isn't taking sides.' I didn't add that she would be taking sides if she knew the real reason that we'd split up.
When I'd met Paul, a builder, back in November 2005, I'd fallen for his big heart straight away. By the following March, I'd moved in with him. I'd split with my daughters' dad 15 years ago and now, in my 50s, I hadn't expected to meet someone special again. 'I'm in this for life,' I told Paul. 'Me too,' he said. 'The only way you're getting out of this relationship is with a tag on your toe!' We'd both laughed at that. But I wasn't laughing the following October.
Paul had lost his job as a builder and was making no effort to find a new one, so we started rowing a lot. Then, one night, he pushed me so hard, I fell and shattered the bones in both my wrists. I had to have surgery to insert metal plates. 'I don't know what came over me,' Paul babbled as he rushed me to St Mary's hospital in Richmond, Virginia. 'I'll never do it again.' But I'd already decided enough was enough. Now that I had two metal plates in my wrists, that jokey comment about a toe tag sounded scarily like a threat and I knew I had to get out of the relationship.
I hadn't told anyone that Paul had hurt me because I was embarrassed to admit I'd got myself in that situation, so I'd told my daughters that I'd tripped over my slippers. I didn't want to get Paul into trouble either. I just wanted to get out. Paul hadn't taken it well. 'You have serious issues now,' he said down the phone, his voice low and menacing. As he hung up, I heard tyres screech off down the street. Had he been outside? A shiver ran down my spine. What did he mean by serious issues? Was that a threat? And why was he parked outside the house at this time of night? I didn't know the answers, but I knew I was scared.
The next morning, tired and anxious, I got up for work. I'd told Sandra what had happened and she was worried, too. 'Do you want me to follow in my car?' she said. 'I'll be fine,' I told her. Although it was a grey, gloomy morning, the hospital where I worked was just five minutes away. Still, the whole journey, I kept my eyes peeled for Paul's car. The car park was empty as I walked towards the hospital entrance and tried to open the door. 'It's locked,' mouthed the security guard inside, waving me round to another entrance. I turned around and there he was.
Paul stood just a few feet behind me. And he was holding a machete. In camouflage gear and with a wild glint in his eye, he looked like an extra from a war film. My mind screamed at me to run away, but fear kept me rooted to the spot. I opened my mouth to shout for help, but all I could do was let out a piercing scream and raise my hands. 'Yeah!' he laughed. Before I could figure out what was happening, Paul's footsteps were thundering towards me. I felt three painful slashes to my arms before I passed out.
When I next opened my eyes, I was flat on the concrete, blood gurgling in my mouth. My vision was blurry, but I could make out Paul looming over me. 'Now you can do what you want,' he said calmly before he walked away. Fading in and out of consciousness, I felt myself being lifted onto a stretcher and heard a strange voice asking me questions. Do you know what happened to you? Do you know who did this? Then I heard sirens wailing towards me. She's lost a lot of blood. Don't lose her. Were they talking about me? Was I dying?
When I next came to, my daughters were there. 'Mum,' Latisha cried, teary-eyed. 'You're awake.' She said I was in MCV Hospital in Richmond. I'd been transferred because my injuries were so severe. Doctors had fitted a tracheotomy tube so I couldn't talk, but I gave a small smile. I was still out of it when the police came to see me. 'Paul has been arrested,' a detective told me. 'He'd tried to kill himself by drinking anti-freeze.' It was a relief, but when doctors told me about my injuries, I couldn't believe it had happened to me. 'Your right hand was almost severed,' the doctor said. 'The machete smashed through your teeth and sliced off your tongue, but we were able to sew it back on.' I had slashes to my face and left hand, and my sight had been affected.
Over the next month, it slowly sank in. The man who was once the love of my life had cut out my tongue. With a machete! What would my speech be like now? When the tube was removed, I cleared my throat. My first words? 'I can speak,' I cried. It was amazing. My speech was perfect. After a week of physiotherapy, I was discharged and went to stay with my daughters. In hospital, I'd felt safe, but now, I'd check every door was locked and jump at every sound. 'Just concentrate on healing,' I told myself. 'Try to forget it.' That wasn't easy with thick scarring on my face.
I knew I couldn't really move on properly until after the court case. Paul was pleading guilty, but I'd still need to give an impact statement and that meant facing him in court. At Richmond Court, I couldn't bear to look at him as I explained my injuries to the judge. Only once I was back in my seat did I look over at Paul. Why? I thought. Why did you do this to me? When he was allowed to speak, I thought I might get my answer. 'No sentence could hurt me more than I've hurt myself,' he said. 'Anything short of a death sentence is too good for me.' That was it. I lost it and ran from the court. 'I can't go back in there,' I told the clerk. Later, I was told by police that Paul had been given a life sentence for aggravated malicious wounding, as well as suspended sentences for attempted murder and stabbing. It was over.
That night, I realised something. Paul had a life sentence, but I didn't. If I was going to be scared to go out, jumping at every sound, there was no point in living at all. So I refuse to be scared any more. If I don't live my life to the full, then he's succeeded. And I won't let that happen.