I have 49 unread messages, 115 unread emails, 14 unheard voice mails, a stack of unopened post 2cm thick that is collecting dust on my kitchen countertop, a basket of unfolded clean clothes sitting on my black and white gingham chair plus a bag of nearly overdue library books (9, I think).
I am pacing back and forth in my kitchen with the worst anxiety I have ever had. It started well up in my chest around an hour before noon and since then it has to collect gales of speed only noticeable on a seismograph (or, you know, looking at the way I am spinning my rubix cube).
It is that moment that you realise that someone else could possibly remove you from this existence. Their rage, their hatred for you could boil over and they could stop you from living. They could ensure that you make no more memories, never answer the door for delivery again or laugh at a stupid joke made by a friend.
It happens every single day all around the world in every country. A person takes the life of another out of anger.
And sometime in the future, I could be one of those people. A small headline, maybe, “woman found in dumpster” or “woman ran down by car”.
And then that would be it. Everyone would know who it was, of course. It would be no secret. I would be one more statistic.
Some 47,000 women and girls worldwide were killed by their intimate partners or other family members in 2020. This means that, on average, a woman or girl is killed by someone in her own family every 11 minutes.