Content note: this piece contains discussions of sexual assault, intimate partner violence, and hate crime.

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It was only years later Jack realised they had never been attracted to Marcus.

Five years too late, Jack thought fiercely as they faced the now long-neglected manilla folder of Marcus's old drawings. Taking a deep breath, they tentatively opened the thin cardboard sleeve to the first image: Jesus riding a triceratops. Jack smiled sadly despite them self and then grimaced as the first hot tear slid unbidden down their cheek. This was hard. So hard. They remembered when they had requested this particular cartoon, back in the days when church had still felt like somewhere they belonged, something they believed in, even as a gnawing doubt took hold deep within their stomach. Those days of bake sales, youth band and wacky children's talks sometimes roping in Marcus – presentations that elicited a mixture of smiles and frowns from the older church members - were long gone, faded away as Jack had begun to question, begun to realise their identity and recognise that it wasn't acceptable in that space. More tears had joined the first one, sliding after in solidarity, and Jack set the cartoon aside in what would be the 'keep' pile.

For the millionth time, Jack wished they had known what asexual and aromantic meant before they had agreed to date Marcus in the first place. Why did not they not trust their instincts! Because society sucks, that's why, Jack thought savagely. Their first impression of Marcus had been his condescension as he had proceeded to mansplain the physics textbook Jack was autodidactically studying, but he was the only person in their compulsory breadth subject that had been friendly and accessible. Jack had been shocked and somewhat flattered when he had asked to go on a date, and since they had been nineteen and never dated anyone they said yes. Not a good reason, Jack chided them self, feeling instantly guilty knowing it wouldn't help. Not now that the damage had been done.

There wasn't even aesthetic attraction, they realised, thinking of the few people since then they had felt some form of inexplicable connection with or whom they ardently admired. They recalled internally shuddering when Marcus had asked them to sunscreen his back, something that was supposed to be romantic, but Jack had been repulsed by the tufts of hair on his shoulder blades and then felt like a terrible person for it. Hairy just wasn't their personal aesthetic, though society probably didn't help with that, either. Nor was his face even aesthetically pleasing to them, but perhaps that had partly been the hungry way he looked at them sometimes, causing Jack to feel revulsion in the pit of their stomach, which they tried to ignore. After all, romantic partners were supposed to look at each other like that, Jack knew. So why did it make them feel so uncomfortable? Because I'm ace, Jack answered their own question. Shaking them self out of their reverie, Jack looked at the next picture: the planet Pluto walking the plank as the rest of the solar system brandished swords aboard a pirate ship, reminding Jack of what they had loved about Marcus; his sense of humour had been quite similar to their own, although taking the occasional cis dude turn of overly crass and faintly misogynistic, no matter how 'woke' Marcus liked to think he was, which to be fair was quite progressive. Jack felt an ache in their chest as their mind drifted to the safe warmth of Marcus's hugs, how he had said he would die for them without a second thought. Not in a saccharine Romeo and Juliet sort of way, either, but in a matter-of-fact tone. Like it was just as logical as the sun rising each day.

Why did people have to be so goddamn complicated? It would be so much easier to think of Marcus as the monster who abused them, but it was never so simple. That terrible night (although Jack had since remembered others they had somehow blocked out or written off), whilst the worst of their life, was not indicative of who Marcus was for the most part, although it certainly highlighted his selfishness. The master of grand gestures, but abysmal at everyday listening and attentiveness, thought Jack, not for the first time. If only they had stayed friends, they might have been close forever with their shared nerdiness and passion projects...no. Stop it. There's no use dwelling on the past. Jack added Pluto to the keep pile and took a steadying breath. They would probably never look at the pictures again, or at least not for years, yet they couldn't abide destroying these artworks and the bittersweet memories associated with them. For the most part Jack was quite clinical when it came to keepsakes, not one to hoard material objects; it was okay to want this connection to an important part of their journey, however painful.

The next cartoon was a naked pinup of Marcus that Jack had demanded of him after he had presented one of them, which had made them uncomfortable even though they knew it was another one of those 'it should be romantic' type deals. Their response had been to ask him to see the beauty in his own naked body, therefore making it seem more like a study rather than something sexual. God, I am so typically ace, Jack shook their head, marvelling at how long it had taken to figure it out whilst simultaneously cursing the society that should really shoulder the blame.

And it was the same with gender, especially being non-binary. Looking back at their time with Marcus, back when Jack had thought they were a straight cis woman, seemed like the memories of a completely different person and at the same time someone affectionately (and embarrassingly) familiar. Like a sister, Jack decided. They recalled Marcus saying he thought Jack would be handsome as a man, a tip to his own bisexuality, and the rush of feelings Jack had hastily shoved down, praying their face didn't look as red as it felt. Another pang of pain wracked their chest as they imagined what an ally Marcus might have been as a close friend, how excited he would have been at top surgery and low dose T and now their upcoming hysterectomy.

Maybe he would have presented me with a packer, Jack smirked, something they had considered but decided it wasn't worth the expense for something they might not even like. At least, not at the moment. They sighed heavily, feeling the weight of knowledge lacking in the past that may well have seen a fruitful and intimate friendship instead of a flaming wreckage.

They scrunched up the nude self portrait of Marcus and threw it vaguely in the direction of the bin with more force than strictly necessary; along with the sorrow and nostalgia was a streak of hot anger at Marcus. It simmered beneath the surface of Jack's psyche every day, the sense of betrayal and invalidation as Marcus had gaslighted, excused himself and made it all about his own pain, even as Jack lay stiff and traumatised. The same righteous anger that was ignited by news of park murders, beatings of queer black folk and inflammatory articles designed to fear-monger and misinform. How dare people like Marcus demand their victims to make them better! How dare they cause Jack to live in fear that it was only a matter of time before it was another vulnerable woman or queer person shouting out in nightmares mixed with brutal reality.

Because they hadn't reported it. When Jack had dragged them self to the doctor, heart hammering and hands shaking, stumbling out the terrible reason for needing a mental health plan; the kindly doctor – a female doctor at specific request of Jack - had asked if they wanted to report Marcus to the police. And it had been such a slap in the face and completely unconscionable to Jack then, that they had hastily stammered no without even thinking about it. Because he was their husband, not a criminal. Because it would ruin his life, never mind their own already in charred tatters. Because he was a good man, really.

He said he didn't hear them. He said he was drunk. He said they were enjoying it (even though Jack had only ever tolerated it). And in some twisted poisonous way, Jack felt responsible for him now. If he ever hurt someone else...but it was useless and unfair to them to think about that at all. Worrying it like a meat-stripped bone when he was off gallivanting with a new girlfriend, knowing Jack couldn't do anything even if it did happen. They had to hope he had learned – he had gone to therapy as well, after all - had to hope he had worked and fretted, had truly meant the casual apology that came a month too late.

Fuck him. Jack shoved the remaining drawings back into the folder and stuffed it into the bookshelf, a problem for another time. There was only so long it was tenable to delve back into this stuff and Jack was proud of the progress they had made, even if they did still blame them self for their own ignorance and lack of initiative, for not telling him to get fucked the very first time he went too far.

They had learned from it, survived the bitter poison burning through their veins and continued to heal. And he still lived with his parents, which gave Jack some guilty pleasure. They had never liked that stuffy house with its weird vibe and faint musty smell. Perhaps as the years rolled by Marcus would take up less space in Jack's psyche, becoming merely a catalyst for their own journey instead of a leading character. Wiping the salty wet trails from their cheeks, Jack looked out the window and gazed at the bright blue of the sky for a moment, watching the gentle swaying of gum leaves in the wind. Their bedroom seemed suddenly stifling when there was a whole world outside waiting for them to explore, new memories to create as someone who was free and authentic, wise enough to do better; a different person to the timid and ignorant teenager who couldn't say no.

Jack broadened their shoulders, padded out of the room and closed the door.

If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence, or thinks they might be, you can contact

1800 RESPECT if you click here

Or the Department of Family and Community Services LGBTIQ resource

FACS LGBTIQ resource if you click here