Lies We Keep

by Danielle Rose

  “Don’t ever say his name!” he said.

  He turned on his heel, balled his fist, and slammed it against the wall.

  “He doesn’t deserve you,” he said slowly.

  I whimpered, staring at the floor. Only then did I notice my necklace was missing.

  My heart leapt.

  Had it fallen off? Was it nearby? Was it close enough for James to find me?

  “Are you going to forget about him, Jezebel?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  He grabbed a handful of hair and yanked my head back.

  “I asked you a fucking question!”

  “Y-Yes,” I said between hiccups. “I-I’m sorry. I’ll be g-good.”

  His eyes softened, and he released me.

  “Oh, Jezebel,” he whispered. “Don’t you see? Don’t you see what you do to me? I can’t help it. I just… I get so mad when I think about him touching what’s mine, what’s meant for me.”

  He licked his lips as he stared at me, his gray eyes growing dark.

  “Your paralytic will wear off soon.” He smiled at me, offering a toothy grin.

  “P-Please, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I swear.”

  He barked out a hard laugh.

  “Do you think I’m an idiot? If you’re out there, we’ll never be together.” He closed the space between us and held my face between his hands. “Don’t you see? Don’t you see that we’re perfect for each other? I’m just like you, Jezebel. I don’t want to be part of that world either.”

  His words bounced around my head. I did this to myself. I got myself in this situation. By cutting myself off from the world, I put a target on my back. I welcomed someone like Brent Miller into my world. I felt sick, and this time, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop it.

  I leaned forward, expelling the liquid contents from my gut.

  “Fuck. Damn it!” Brent said, taking several steps back.

  The poignant odor of vomit wafted through the air. It smelled like a mix of decaying flowers and death.

  Maybe now, he’d move me. He’d untie my wrists and toss me aside.

  But he didn’t.

  Instead, he left me there and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  I didn’t know how long I stood there, waiting, wondering if he’d come back for me or leave me to rot. I didn’t know how much time passed. The pain of my hands was becoming unbearable—it was surely my brain’s last-ditch effort to save my hands by making them hurt enough for me to lower them. My fingers were numb, my arms weak. I rested my head against my arm. My skin was cool, sticky. I turned my head to assess the damage. The paleness of my hands was spreading to my arms, and I knew I would soon lose them, too.

  By the time Brent returned, the vomit that remained on my chin and in the corner of my mouth had caked over.

  I felt disgusting, degraded. With only my underwear and broken bra, I was nearly nude, covered in filth. I couldn’t move my hands, and my arms were growing stiff. As I stared at my feet, only a few inches from the pool of vomit I’d left on the floor, I noticed the black and blue marks along my ankles.

  My world began to crash down around me.

  Reality and self-doubt were suffocating as I began to believe I’d never survive.

  “Please, let me go…” I whispered.

  Save me the pain, the heartache.

  “I don’t want to force you, Jezebel. You need to want me as much as I want you.”

  He ran his hand across my stomach, and when he reached my thighs, he latched onto my core, bunching my underwear and ripping them off. The fabric dug into my skin before giving way. I cried out as he tossed the thin fabric aside.

  “But if I must make you feel what I feel, then I will,” he grumbled.

  “Don’t touch me!” I screamed.

  He grabbed onto the flesh of my ass, lifting me, and tossed each leg over a shoulder. A rush of relief flooded me. The pain in my wrists eased ever so slightly, and I felt sick at the sensation.

  I tried to wriggle free, but it was no use. So I screamed. I screamed as loudly as I could for as long as I could. I put everything I had into that scream, knowing it was the only weapon I had. My lungs ached, but I didn’t dare stop. I wouldn’t stop until I suffocated.

  His fist came down on me in a quick burst. Lights danced behind my eyes, but I didn’t stop screaming. His anger only fueled me more. He hit me again, but this time, I heard something crack. A sharp pain shot through my eye. I inhaled deeply, ready to make my final call, but before I could scream one last time, hands wrapped around my neck and squeezed.

  My face grew hot as I struggled for air. My eyes watered and cheeks stung. With each jerk of my neck, the rope around my wrists scratched my flesh until I was certain it had reached bone. I felt the subtle jerks of my body’s final attempt to grasp life until my eyelids grew heavy, lungs ached. I stopped trying to breathe, and instead, I welcomed the darkness that was enveloping my world. My vision blurred as my eyes fluttered shut.

  Suddenly, air crashed back into my lungs. The sensation was painful, burning, but I couldn’t stop. I swallowed down gulps of air until the pain lessened. In the distance, I could hear voices, pounding, but my strength was depleted. I couldn’t look up; instead, I hung by my wrists from the rope and stared at the ground.

  Everything was beginning to hurt as the paralytic wore off.

  How much more could I handle? How much would be too much? How much led to death?

  I heard something break—a crash—but I didn’t look up.

  Two hands grasped either side of my face, and I winced, preparing to take another hit.

  “Please…” I begged.

  I didn’t know what I was begging for: to be free, to stop the beating, to just end it… The tears that fell stung as they slid into open wounds.

  “Jezebel,” he said softly.

  I opened my eyes to find a set of pained sapphire blues staring back at me. They burned brightly against their bloodshot cases.

  “James,” I whispered.

  Was I dreaming?

  Was I dead?

  I was too weak to ask, but honestly, I didn’t care.

  I was with James.

  I wasn’t in that place anymore.

  I wasn’t with that monster.

  I was free.

  He pulled a knife from his belt and cut me down. My arms fell forward in a limp thud. Unable to stand alone, I fell against him. He walked me over to a corner bed and set me down. He assessed my hands.

  “I can’t cut these off, Jezebel. You’ll bleed out.”

  I nodded and looked at my wrists. The rope was embedded deeply.

  “My hands hurt,” I whispered.

  “Look at me,” he said as he angled my head upward. “Just stay with me, okay?”

  I caught sight of a shadow behind him in time to see Brent’s face directly behind James. Before I could offer a warning, Brent brought down a knife, stabbing James in the shoulder. Releasing me, James spun on his heel, reached back, yanked the knife free, and slashed it forward. His sliced through Brent’s shirt, a thin red line blotching the dirty fabric.

  I tried to run, but my legs gave out after just a few steps, and I tumbled to the floor. James glanced over at me, and Brent took advantage of his distraction. He landed several hits before James had the chance to strike back.

  Across the room, I found Brent’s suit coat, a holstered pistol sticking out of its inner pocket. It felt like an eternity had passed by the time I’d finally crawled to it. I grabbed onto the jacket, yanking it down, and the chair fell over beside me. My fingers ached as I slid the gun from its holster. I pushed myself off the ground and leaned against the wall, pointing the gun at the two men.

  “Stop!” I yelled, but no one listened.

  I tried to pull the trigger, but my hands were too weak. I tried again. The trigger gave way, but I couldn’t pull it back hard enough to release a bullet. A sharp pain shot through my hand and down my arm, and I nearly dropped the weap
on.

  In a movement too quick for my swollen eyes, Brent fell to the ground, retrieved a hidden pistol from his ankle, and pointed it at James.

  A rush of adrenaline soared through me, and screaming, I pulled the trigger, emptying the clip in the direction of Brent, hoping at least one bullet would hit.

  The room fell silent. Dropping the empty pistol, I crawled over to their bodies, reaching Brent’s first. Lying in a pool of blood, he remained motionless as I shimmied past him.

  “James?” I whispered.

  My voice cracked. I collapsed by his side and stared down at him. His shirt was stained red, but he was breathing.

  “James?”

  Tears pooled at the outer creases of his eyes as he glanced at me.

  “Stay with me,” I said.

  My eyes were heavy, and my chest ached. I fought to escape the darkness that was threatening to consume me. I rested my head on James’s chest. His shirt was hot, sticky, and it clung to my cheek. His usually steady, strong heartbeat was weak.

  Th-thump.

  Th-thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Th…

  I focused on James’s heartbeat until I couldn’t hear anything anymore.

  I knew I was in a hospital before I even opened my eyes. I could smell it, hear it. The sterile room I was sure I was lying in smelled of chemicals—specifically, bleach. And it was nauseating. The incessant beeping of my monitors rang at volumes too high for someone just waking up. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been asleep, but I felt like I wasn’t ready to embrace the world.

  Because I remembered everything.

  I was sure that wasn’t normal. In the movies, people waking up in a hospital always had some form of amnesia, and that saved them from the heartache of having a memory.

  But that was my curse: my impeccable memory that never spared me.

  As soon as the grogginess started to fade and I could open my eyes, I remembered what had happened.

  I remembered being taken from the hotel.

  I remembered being beaten by Brent Miller.

  I remembered shooting the gun.

  I remembered listening to James’s heartbeat until I couldn’t anymore.

  I remembered everything Tara said to me each time she visited.

  But I don’t remember how I got from that room to here.

  And I don’t remember James visiting me.

  Had he survived?

  “Jezebel? Can you hear me?” Tara asked. “Nurse. Nurse! I think she’s waking up.”

  Fuck.

  I’d hoped it wasn’t obvious.

  I didn’t want to deal.

  I couldn’t deal.

  I wanted to escape the torment that was rehabilitation by keeping my eyes closed forever.

  But I couldn’t. I had to face the world.

  Slowly, I opened my eyes. The light was bright, blinding, and it bounced off the white walls and ceilings.

  “Can we dim the lights?” Tara asked.

  The lights went out, and I sucked in a quick burst of air. I was in darkness again, and I wasn’t alone. I could feel eyes on me, watching, waiting, lingering just an arm-length away. My heart raced, and my mind was spinning.

  “Turn them back on!” I screamed.

  I was blinded again, but anything was better than suffocating in darkness.

  I scanned the room, swallowing the knot that had formed in my throat. Tara stood by my side, and a nurse was by the door.

  “James?” I whispered.

  My voice cracked, my throat dry. It hurt to speak, but I needed to know if he had survived.

  Tara shushed me. “Don’t worry about him right now. We need to focus on you.”

  Tears threatened to spill. “Is h-he dead?”

  “Jezebel,” a familiar voice said.

  I looked over to find James standing in the doorway. He dropped the two cups he was holding. They crashed to the floor, sending a slop of coffee in every direction. Ignoring the nurse’s protests, he walked through the mess, leaving a trail of brown footprints from the door to my bed.

  “James,” I whispered.

  My heart ached for him as I watched him walk toward me. The bright lights of the hospital room cast an eerie glow around him; it was as if he was surrounded by a white light.

  “They said you might never wake up,” he said softly.

  “I thought you…”

  I shook my head, tears spilling. My throat clenched as I sobbed, making it hard to speak, to breathe, to think about the man before me.

  When he reached my side, he grasped my hand in his, bringing it to his mouth, placing a soft kiss on the skin.

  That was when I noticed the damage.

  I held my arms before me, examining the scars that encircled my wrists.

  “Ms. Tate?” a woman’s voice said. “I’m Doctor Patel, your attending physician.”

  By the time I finally tore my eyes from my wrists, she had already scribbled something onto her clipboard. She pressed a few buttons on the machines surrounding my bed and wrote down more notes. When she was finished, she slid her pen into the pocket of her white lab coat and smiled at me.

  “Can you tell me your full name?” she asked.

  “My throat,” I said. I reached for my neck.

  She nodded, looking at the nurse, who busied herself by cleaning up the mess James had left. “Get her some ice chips.”

  The nurse quickly left the room.

  “I know it’s disorienting, but I need you to answer my questions. Do you think you can do that?”

  I shook my head. “It hurts.”

  I grasped my neck, and Brent Miller flashed before my eyes. I gasped as I felt his fingers clench my neck in his feeble attempt to stop my screams. Quickly, I dropped my arms, letting them fall to my lap.

  The nurse returned with a clear plastic cup of ice chips. After handing the cup to me, she continued cleaning the mess on the floor.

  “That should help,” the doctor said as I sucked an ice cube into my mouth.

  “Why can’t she have water?” Tara asked.

  “She can soon, but she’s just woken up. Her stomach needs to settle. We need to cover some things first, and we’d like to control her intake for now.”

  The frozen chips melted in my mouth, turning to cool liquid that coated my throat as I swallowed it down. The pain lessened, but it was just a tease. The ice chips weren’t enough. I needed at least a gallon of water to soothe my dry, scratchy throat.

  “Can you tell me your full name, please?” the doctor asked.

  I answered.

  “Do you know where you are?”

  I told her I was in a hospital, but I didn’t know where.

  “You’re still in Portland, Maine,” she answered.

  “How long?” I whispered.

  “You’ve been in a coma for nearly three months.”

  Three months. I’ve been asleep for three months. Brent Miller stole three months of my life. I was grateful to be alive, to know that James was alive, but I couldn’t help the growing feeling of hatred forming within me. I hated him for ruining my life. I hated him for taking time away from me—time I could never get back.

  “How are you feeling?” the doctor asked when I finally looked at her.

  She was pretty, petite. Her black hair was tied back, but strands fell into her eyes each time she looked down at me.

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly.

  She nodded. “Confusion is common. Are you experiencing any pain right now?”

  Looking at my wrists, I thought about her question. My hands, wrists, and arms were covered in fine, white scars.

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Good. You’ve healed quickly and well, and you shouldn’t experience any more pain in your wrists.”

  My vision began to blur as tears threatened to spill.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  I remembered everything Brent did to me, but I didn’t remember ge
tting to the hospital.

  “When you were brought in, you were already unconscious. You had slipped into a coma, which is common in cases like yours. Your body and mind were under extreme duress. You lost a lot of blood, and there was trauma.”

  “Trauma?” I asked.

  “At some point, you hit your head, which caused some swelling and breaks. When this happens, the brain can temporarily lose its ability to control awareness and arousal. Shutting down is a way the body copes with extreme situations.”

  I swallowed hard, cringing the burning sensation in my throat.

  “You were in surgery to remove the binding and repair the tissue damage. We saved what we could, but we did need to remove some dead tissue.”

  “Will I be able to do things… normally?” I asked.

  Tara sat on the edge of my bed and grabbed my hand, giving me a reassuring squeeze. But she never looked at me. My breath hitched as I waited for the doctor to answer.

  “Only time will tell. We were able to save enough tissue to prevent the injury from affecting your day-to-day use of your hands, and we will be monitoring your brain function during the rest of your stay here. At this point, we’re unsure if you’ll have any long-term damage because of your head injuries. You’re lucky, Ms. Tate. Your injuries were severe enough to become more than a cosmetic issue.”

  I nodded, swallowing down more tears. She was right. I was lucky to be alive. It shouldn’t matter that I’d lost three months. I had my future, and I was finally free. That’s what mattered.

  “W-Where is he? Did… did he survive?” I stuttered.

  “Ms. Tate, you really shouldn’t worry about anything but your recovery. Your body may have healed, but you need to work on your mind, too.”

  “Just tell me!” I shouted with a force too great for my aching throat, causing a surge of pain to shoot through me. Nurses walking outside my room stopped and looked over, but I didn’t care. “Just tell me if he’s still out there,” I added more quietly.

  “He’s dead,” James said. He reached forward, tucking my hair behind my ear.

  A sense of relief flooded me; it was a feeling I’d never experienced. Knowing he was gone, I felt safe, free, alive. I’d never celebrated the death of another human being, but knowing he was gone made me feel… happy, at ease.

  “The police will want to speak with you,” Tara said. “They checked in fairly regularly during the first month…”