Fight

by Paige Hill

  When I finally gathered the nerve to face the man I loved, I found Mark humming to himself as he made breakfast.

  “Hey, you’re up,” he stated as he rounded the kitchen island to pull me into a tight hug. “How’s my bride-to-be?”

  I was speechless. Too many thoughts running through my head. How was I supposed to process this kind of behavior? Maybe I was just being too sensitive. He was caught up in the moment. Maybe it’s just a ‘normal’ kinky move and I wasn’t prepared.

  Unsure of how I should proceed, I just nodded my head with a confused smile and took a seat at the island. The moment my ass hit the seat, I could feel exactly how sensitive it was. How could the man who likes it that rough be the same man in front of me? My sweet, sensitive Mark… It didn’t make sense.

  After breakfast, I went into the bathroom, preparing to start my day. Undressing, I take a long look in the mirror. My mind refused to accept the information my eyes transferred. It was like a terrible car accident or an ASPCA commercial; no matter how tragic the sight was, I couldn’t look away. I barely stifled a scream. My eyes were puffy and swollen from crying and the skin on my neck was the color of a predawn sky. Finger imprints were visible within the myriad of color. Turning around, I noticed bruising on my upper arms between the tattoos that decorate my skin.

  Then my eyes traveled toward my back side. The globes of my ass were bruised red and purple, and once again, the impressions of his hand were visible on my tender flesh.

  Doing what I do best, I pushed aside the bubbling emotion and stepped into the shower. The previous night played over and over again in my head as the warm spray cascaded down my battered body. Stepping out, I wrapped myself in a robe and strode out in search of Mark. By that point, I was pissed. The more I thought about it the more pissed I became. I hadn’t realized it until that moment, but I was seeking justification for his actions.

  I found Mark in his office shuffling documents around the desk.

  “We need to talk about the shit you pulled last night.” He turned to face me with a look of weariness. Dramatically, I dropped the robe to the floor and bared myself, naked. He needed to see what he had done.

  “This is NOT okay!” I yelled, an angry hurt dropped from my words. “Why did you think it was okay to put your hands on me like that?”

  His eyes raked over me as he took in my appearance, processing what he saw. The flood of emotion on his handsome face looked tortured and earnest. Dropping to his knees, he wrapped his arms around me tightly. Soft tears streaked his face when he looked me in the eyes.

  “Teagan baby, I am so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I—I didn’t realize I was hurting you.” He burrowed his face into my stomach, and I could feel the wetness of his tears on my skin. Combined with the shudder I felt in his shoulders, I believed he really was sorry.

  “Fine, but you have some serious groveling to do.”

  The next few months passed quickly. After the bruises faded, neither of us spoke of that night again. Things between us were beyond great. I felt like I was finally home. Somewhere I belonged.

  On the day of our wedding, I couldn’t contain my happiness. I wanted to sing, to show my mom that I could do better for myself. With Mark by my side, I could be anything I wanted to be. Right then, I just wanted to be Mrs. Langford.

  I stared intently at myself in the mirror. Mark had insisted I wear a classic long-sleeved gown. I had vivid, intricate tattoos on both arms that stopped at my elbows. He felt I should look more conservative being the wife of the future District Attorney. Apparently, my naturally auburn hair didn’t look the part either. He was persistent that blonde would be much more suitable for me.

  That was the day I lost another part of my soul. I lost who I was.

  From that point on, I only wore Mark-approved clothing in public. His family had an image to uphold and now that I was family, I had to look and act the part. I have grown to really hate beige. Such a lifeless color.

  His family was nice to me, even though his mother looked at me like I was a common street whore. She never once voiced a negative word, but her tone said it all. The same back handed compliments we all received from cheerleaders in high school.

  “Normally that color looks so cheap, but it works for you.” She’d say with a forged smile. She was too concerned with her image to allow such a vile look as disgust to grace her beautiful face.

  Mark was an only child and his father boasted on him every chance he got. Governor Langford was a cutthroat Politician who fought desperately for what he thought was right. He rarely lost, which made him cocky. Just like his son. He was much kinder to me than his wife. He accepted me into his home with a warm invitation. I had grown fond of Mr. Langford and it was nice to have a father figure to look up to.

  About a year into our marriage, we were hosting a dinner party for his work associates. He was then an assistant DA with his eye on the prize. That night was going to further his political agenda.

  I was in the kitchen gathering more platters of food when the current DA, Mark’s boss, strutted in.

  “There you are. A woman as beautiful as you shouldn’t be hiding out in the kitchen.”

  I blushed at the older man’s compliment.

  “I’ll be out in just a moment. Just getting a few things together,” I replied, trying to hurry so I could get back to our guests.

  “Let me know when you decide to stop wasting time with that kid. I’m ready for wife number four and I think I’ll go young and pretty this time”. He smiled at me and I knew it was all in good fun. He didn’t make me feel uncomfortable at all.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I responded as he chuckled and headed down the hall toward the restroom.

  Movement caught my eye and I turned, noticing Mark in the next room and he was staring at me, his face filled with rage. Before I could attempt to process what that was about, his expression shifted, and someone pulled him into conversation.

  As soon as the last guest was shown the door, Mark turned to me with an expression I’d never seen grace his handsome face.

  “What the fuck was that about?” he screamed.

  “What was what about?” I asked, genuinely confused.

  “You throwing yourself at my boss, that’s what!”

  “I didn’t throw myself at anyone! He made a joke, Mark. You do know what those are, right?”

  The next thing I knew, he had me by the hair and struck me across the face. He hit me so fast I didn’t even get the opportunity to defend myself.

  “You really are nothing but a white-trash whore. I should have listened to my father.”

  Listened to his father? What?

  That was the first time he put his hands on me in anger, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last.

  A gentle grasp on my arm violently jolts me off the bench I’d been perched on. I come up swinging, heart racing so hard I can barely breathe. For a few seconds, I can’t tell where I am.

  “Woah, woah!” The older gentleman backs away with his hands in the air, showing he means no harm. “I’m sorry miss, I didn’t mean to startle you. The bus you purchased a ticket for is now boarding.”

  He points in the direction of my bus and when he turns back around I notice his name tag says Ernie and recognition sets in. He is the man who sold me my bus ticket.

  Crimson colors my cheeks as I mumble my apology and my feet carry me toward freedom. The sun still hides behind the horizon as I board. Soft LED lights line the walkway casting a faint glow, and it resembles a tiny airplane runway. The irony seems to fit my current situation. I’d love nothing more than to fly away from it all. Once planted in the electric blue seat straight out of the 80s, the reality of what just happened comes crashing down on me. I can’t let that happen again. I need to stay focused. It’s only a matter of time before he finds me, and I can’t risk it. Not this time.

  For the first few hours of my trip, I stare out the window in comfortable silence. Against my better judgement, I allow my
mind to drift. Ghosts from my past haunt me; memories I rarely grant permission, come to surface. Moments like this make me question what life could have been like if I had been born to a different family. If my mom were different. If drugs didn’t exist. Momma loved me. I know she did. But she was sick.

  Living in the Bible Belt, teen pregnancy wasn’t accepted as a youthful mistake. It was a damning sin. My father abandoned her, and her family rejected her. She couldn’t fathom the idea of aborting me. And to be honest, in Oklahoma, that would be a fate worse than murder. Not making excuses for her actions, but what more do you expect from a fifteen-year-old girl, scared and alone in the world? As I grew, so did her desperation.

  Over the years, people took us in. Each one more wicked than the last. By the time I was five, momma was heavily addicted to methamphetamine. I didn’t understand what was wrong. Why she never ate, why her eyes never looked clear. About that time, momma’s boyfriend Clint, took a special interest in me.

  One night, momma was passed out, he came into my room. I clenched my dirty stuffed puppy, terrified. I didn’t know what he wanted, but momma wasn’t with him and he scared me. I pretended to be asleep when he lowered himself onto my tattered Strawberry Shortcake sheets. His dirty hands felt like gravel as they traveled up my thigh. I knew no one was supposed to touch me there. Momma told me to scream if someone touched me. So, I did.

  I let out a scream so loud my throat burned. Momma scrambled into the room a little disoriented but aware enough that she understood the situation.

  “You little shit!” He screamed, slapping me across the face. The metallic twang of blood filled my mouth. Momma lunged at him, my t-ball bat clutched in her thin hands. She swung until his body lie limp on the floor and blood trickled from his ears.

  Sobs and apologies are all that filled the air as momma rushed to pack us a bag. I couldn’t move, just sat there, squeezing my now bloodied puppy. Momma took us to a motel. She sat me down and told me that I would probably be taken away from her. Her words filled me with panic. She was all I knew. I loved my momma. But she continued to talk. She told me I would get to go live with a new family for a while. There would be other children and plenty of food. She made it sound so glorious. When the time was right, she would come get me and we could be together again.

  Those were the thoughts swirling in my little mind as I drifted off to sleep.

  But none of those happy dreams became reality. Momma overdosed the day the State took me. She left me to conquer the world. Alone. And foster care—it was not the happy place momma thought it was.

  Wiping the warm tears from my face, I shift in the seat trying to pull myself together. The pain in my abdomen screams but I manage to breathe through it. Pain has a purpose. It’s telling you something—you are still alive. The question is, am I still listening?

  My thoughts have dampened my mood, so I simply people watch. I enjoy thinking up a story for each person who catches my attention. I often have too much time to think, which is admittedly never positive. As terrified as I am for what may happen if he finds me, I refuse to allow him to further control my life. Starting today, I am the old me. Scratch that. The new me. I am no longer going to be the woman who chooses to wear blinders and make excuses. I square my shoulders, preparing myself for the journey ahead and pride settles deep in my heart. Right now, I figure I am as safe as I can be on a moving bus. Might as well rest while I can. This is a luxury I might not be able to afford in the near future.

  The driver’s voice over the loud speaker pulls me from the depths of slumber. We finally made it to Miami. A sinking feeling starts to settle in my gut, but I force it back. I can do this. I’ve been homeless before. At least this time I will have a car. Not to mention, the wad of cash Manny gave me. I still have not counted the roll of bills to see how much I have to live on until I can find a job.

  SHIT.

  My purse! It’s still on the floor at the house or so I assume. I won’t be able to find legal employment without some form of identification. I am more screwed than I thought. I breathe deep trying to calm my frenzied nerves. It’s okay Teagan. You can figure this out. Won’t be the first time you’ve had to seek out less than legal employment.

  Standing, I stretch the kinks out of my aching body and hiss when the fire ignites at my side. Counting through the pain, I grab my belongings and shuffle awkwardly. I can feel other passengers’ stares as I make my way to the front of the bus. My cheeks redden and burn with embarrassment. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help internalizing the looks on their faces. Pity shines in their eyes and it eats at me. Making sure my aviators are in place, I pull my hood tighter. I just need to make it out of here.

  Walking out to the passenger pick up area, I scan my surroundings, grappling to find my bearings. The air is warm and thick, and the sounds of loved ones being united surround me. The atmosphere brings with it a bittersweet throb. I am not exactly sure who I’m looking for, but Manny assured me that he would be here. Whoever “he” is.

  Glancing around, I pause when I see a large tan-skinned man standing next to a faded black early 2000s Honda Civic. I can’t contain the smile that takes over my features as I walk over to the man holding a sign that reads simply “Baby Girl”.

  As I get closer, I can see the man is probably in his late forties. With his gold chains, silk shirt and chest hair, he looks every bit the part of cheesy Mafioso.

  “Aey, you must be the Teagan Manny has convinced ‘em self is his daughta’,” he observes with a heavy accent I can’t place. I can’t help the glow that radiates through me, knowing Manny thinks of me in such a way.

  “Well, I couldn’t think of a better father to have so, yeah, that’s me,” I beam.

  I can pinpoint the exact moment he notices the marks on my skin. My stomach tightens as his mouth flattens, and his previously harsh eyes soften just a bit before he speaks.

  “Emmanuel told me some about your situation. I’m real sorry that happened to ya, miss. Men like him, they get what’s comin’ to ‘em.” His sincerity surprises me.

  “Thank you for the help and for meeting me here. Now I can focus on moving on with my life.” It’s all I can honestly say. I don’t want to discuss Mark, or that life any longer.

  “Anything for Manny. Here.” He hands me a large manila envelope. “This should be everythin’ you need. There’s a prepaid phone in there too. Manny wants you to call him when you get where eva’ it is you’re goin’.”

  I open the envelope and see a phone, driver’s license with my picture on it, Social Security card, and keys which I assume are for the car. The photo on the ID is old. It is the picture from the last driver’s license I had before I married Mark. I don’t even know if I can wrap my head around this. There is clearly more to Manny’s past than I realized.

  “Thanks again. I uh, do I even want to know how you got a driver’s license with my picture on it?” I pull it out to reveal the name listed on the card—Taryn Sullivan. I smirk realizing that this is the third last name I’ve had in my twenty-nine years.

  “No ma’am, ain’t something you should be askin’.” His voice is stern but the small smile on his face reflects the levity of our interaction.

  “Well, I guess I’ll be on my way. I think I’m going to stay in town for at least tonight. I’m pretty worn out. I need to unwind a bit and work some things out before I decide on where to go.” I don’t know why I’m telling him all this, nor do I realize how true those statements are until I voice them.

  “You should definitely find a safe place to sleep tonight. I know havin’ a drink is probably not on the top of the to do list, but it looks like ya’ could use one. Or ten.”

  I take a second to think about his words.

  He’s not wrong.

  “Yeah, I’ll think about it.” We exchange smiles and he helps me load my bags into the car.

  “Now, get outta here!” he yells over his shoulder with a nod as he walks away. I laugh a little as I start the car’s engine.
I’m surprised at how clean the car is despite her age and apparent overuse. She’s perfect.

  I pull out onto the street not really having any idea where I’m going. What I do know is that I’m starving and my side hurts like a son of bitch. I pull into the first grocery store I see, looking for a private location to evaluate my situation and figure out how much money I have to live on. Growing up as I did, you learn quickly not to let anyone see how much of anything valuable you have. If they do see, you won’t have it for long. I scan the parking lot to see how much privacy I have. The lot seems empty and the windows are thankfully tinted. I pull the cash out of a small backpack I brought and unroll it. Five hundred dollars. Not a lot, but like I said, I’ve had a lot worse. It should be enough to house me for a little while. Hell, if anything, I can sleep in the car.

  Gathering my new ID, cash, and key, I head for the store. The big red bullseye over the door mocks me and I instinctively tense. I make my way up and down the isles gathering a few snack items I know will last me, along with some bread and cheap lunch meat. I am grateful that I grabbed all the toiletries from my bathroom back in Tallahassee. One less thing to worry about.

  Rounding a clearance section, I realize I need to replace my purse and wallet. Quickly looking through the items, I find what I need. A black faux leather hand bag and matching wallet are on sale for sixty percent off. Perfect. It seems a little frivolous to spend what little money I have on a purse, but the bag represents more than just an object to hold my items. It carries a sense of normalcy. As minute as it may be, it’s another piece of my life, collected from the ashes.

  After making my purchase, I head back out to the car.

  Thankfully, the prepaid phone I was given is a smart phone. I do a quick google search and pull up a list of motels. Selecting directions for the one closest to me, I pull back out onto the street. Fifteen minutes and homicide-inducing traffic later, I pull into the parking lot of a rundown motel. I don’t have a credit card and this place definitely looks like a cash, pay-by-the-hour, kind of joint.