by Max Henry
Fuck.
“No.”
“Shit, Jane. You must think I’m a fucking half-wit, hey?”
Most of the time, yes.
“What do you want me to say, Dylan?”
I let out a squeak as he tugs me onto his lap. “Look me in the eye, and tell me the truth: you’re fucking the guy.”
I wish. He would be so much sweeter than you.
The thought must be written over my face. His eyes grow dark, and his grip slides up my body to my neck. I read somewhere once that when a person tries to choke you, you should press your tongue to the roof of your mouth as it helps to keep your airway open. I figure now is as good a time as any to test the theory.
“Well?”
I shake my head in his grasp. He tightens the hold while he tuts at me.
“Jane. Why do you treat me like shit on your shoe? Why do you disrespect me with your lies?”
The tongue pressing aids a little, but the airflow is still restricted to the point that my time spent breathing is limited. Out of self-preservation, my hands find their way to his wrists. I beg him with my eyes to let go. I plead, but he hangs on, rising to stand.
Dylan finds his feet, and tosses me aside, as though the sheer act of touching me repulses him. At that moment I praise his hate toward me; it may have saved my life. Sad, Jane. So fucking sad. I lie on the floor, watching him, waiting for the cue to his next move. The whole time I’m mapping my escape, plotting my options.
“Do I need to start locking you in the house?”
I shake my head vigorously. No. Don’t take away the sunshine.
“Probably wouldn’t work anyway.” He paces before me, rubbing his chin. “How could you hang the washing out?”
He isn’t talking to me, simply musing his thoughts aloud. I make a move to stand, and roll to my hands and knees.
Whoompf!
I swear my lungs had air in them a second ago.
Dylan draws his foot back as I fall onto my side again, the tears running in steady streams over my cheeks. It burns; it hurts like a dozen small knives stabbing at my side. He’s done some real damage, and all that runs through my head is the ridiculous concern that I may offend him by making a mess.
“You’re as pathetic as that fucking dog of yours; still hoping I’ll leave you alone.” He lays another kick in to my side, and walks out of the room, muttering to himself while I sob in agony.
How much longer can I keep this up? How long until it’s the final showdown?
Moreover, what will it bloody take for me to fight back? How close to death do I need to be before I’ll literally care enough to retaliate?
Or will I simply accept the end, and welcome the sweet peace with open arms?
I WAKE the next day, gingerly opening my eyes to find that Dylan has all ready left for work. Small miracles do still happen. The house is quiet, and my spirit wilts. What’s left for me? What is the reason to get up? Nobody gives two shits whether I live or die, so why make the effort?
I try to sit up, but the agony in my abdomen leaves me a sniveling mess on the bed as I contemplate how bad things must be to stop me from moving such a short distance. I try again, but pain rips through my mid-section.
I have to see a doctor this time.
There’s no avoiding it.
But I need to get out of bed first.
Somehow I manage a convoluted display of wriggling, and roll to get myself out of the bed sideways. Pushing to stand from being on my hands and knees is considerably less painful, but no less agonizing.
My fingers gently pull the hem of my nightshirt up over my torso as I stand before the mirror. Bruising swirls around my rib cage. This can’t be good. I tenderly trace the marked flesh with my free hand while I listen to my rasping breaths. Tears silently fall from the line of my jaw, hitting the carpet without a sound.
So quiet.
Despite the pain, I rear across to my alarm clock, and smack the slider over to the ‘radio’ function. Music fills the room, and gives an immediate relief to my building anxiety. I can’t do this anymore. What am I going to tell the doctor? What kind of bullshit accident do people have that causes this much injury? They’ll see right through it, and then there’ll be a report done. Dylan will be talked to. And then what? I’ll finally die?
Not today.
I may feel defeated, but I’m far from done. I still want what’s mine. I want my freedom before I go.
The Google search I do on the computer does little to dispel my concerns that I have major broken bones. Everything I can find that matches my symptoms point toward an injury I can’t fix with the home first-aid kit. Chances are he’s punctured a lung, or worse.
Shit.
A half hour later, I’ve managed to contort myself into my clothes, and I gingerly make my way down the front steps. The air is already thick, and I curse at the long sleeves I’ve chosen to wear to cover the fingermarks. My eyes rove across to my neighbor’s driveway, and the sight of his truck parked at home brings tears to the corners of my eyes.
There is a god.
The trip from our front steps to his porch is excruciatingly slow on such a hot morning. I could have run a damn marathon and sweat less. My imagination goes crazy brewing up images of what a mess I must look: wheezing, limping. My hair sticks to the side of my head, and I try in vain to sweep it away, only to have the lengths tangle around my clammy hands. I’m trying to free myself, and appear at least half composed when true to form, he’s all ready at the door as I approach.
“You got a hall pass?” His cheery smile soon vanishes as he watches me inch up his steps. “Where are you hurt?”
I groan, and rest against the railing. “My ribs. I think it might be bad.”
“Inside,” he orders, looking around the street.
With the shape I’m in as I wobble up his hallway, a Zimmer frame would have looked at home in my hands. I’m stooped over to ease the ache in my abdomen, but with every step I take the movement feels as though it dislodges another shard of glass into my side.
I barely make it to the chair before his hands are under my arms, taking my weight.
“Sit, and let me see.”
Shit. I don’t want to show him my body. Is he insane?
“You’re doubled over in pain, and you’re going to get shy on me?” He scowls at my pitiful attempts to block him from reaching my shirt.
A brief struggle ensues between me pulling down, and him inching the fabric outside of my grasp up my body. I relent, ready to break into tears if I have to use my core muscles a second longer.
He gently tucks the cotton T-shirt under my bra, careful not to touch me anywhere disrespectful, and frowns. “That’s pretty bad, Jane.”
I look down, and suck a sharp breath in. The extent of the bruising still shocks me.
He urges me forward on the seat, and gently turns me so my side is facing him. “It’s all the way around the back. Did you know that?”
I shake my head, fighting the urge to wail in resignation. Why the fuck did I go back? “Can you take me to the doctor? I don’t know what to tell them. I’m scared to go on my own,” I sob.
“Fuck the doctor, I’m taking you to the E.R. I’d say you’ve got fractured ribs, Jane. The G.P. would probably send you there for an X-ray anyway.”
I nod. I don’t care anymore; I’ll go anywhere, see anybody to take away the ache that’s threatening to make me hurl.
His hand glides along my jaw, before the pad of his thumb dots my bottom lip in a gesture of adoration. “Come on, then. I’ll get the keys.”
• • • • •
I WATCH the nurse as she ticks a few boxes off on the sheet pinned to her clipboard. Her mint colored uniform matches the barren walls of the cubicle we’re in. I ponder whether hospitals get some sort of bulk-buy deal for the color considering they all seem to be the same.
“How did you sustain the injury again?”
I glance to Neighbor, sitting to my side, and he shakes his head
at me, urging me to tell the truth this time. He could tell me to jump off a cliff and I would feel less scared than I do now.
“My husband.”
“Okay, then. Are you prepared to make a formal report?”
I hesitate, and the triage nurse draws in a deep breath as she eyes me with pity.
“You do realize, sweetie, that I have to report it either way? Things will go a lot smoother if you’re on board with us.”
I nod, and stare at the floor as I sit on the edge of the hospital bed. “I understand.”
“Okay. I’ll place a call to the authorities, and we’ll get the ball rolling. Do you know where your husband is now?”
I shake my head. “Work, I assume.”
“All right.” Her hand drops to my knee in a maternal fashion. “I’ll be right back.”
The curtain billows behind her, and Neighbor drops the breath he’d been holding.
“You’re doing the right thing.”
I move my gaze to his eyes, and drop it back to the floor just as quickly. “Then why does it feel like I just made the biggest mistake of my life?”
“What choice did you have?” he asks, gesturing to my ribs. “He didn’t leave you much option.”
“I’m terrified.” My hands tremble in their position on the side of the bed.
The sound of leather creaking accompanies his movement. He takes a position next to me, mirroring my stance, and looks to the floor also. “You won’t be doing it alone.”
“You don’t know what he can be like.”
“I can imagine.”
“It’s not your fight.” I look over at him as he sits, eyes glassed, his focus anywhere but here.
His dark eyes rise to meet mine, and a furrow pulls at his brow. “It should never have been yours, either.”
“I’m giving you the chance to walk away.” Moisture glistens at the base of my vision. “Take it.”
He simply shakes his head, and brings a hand to my face. I lean into the feather-light touch he applies to my cheek, and shut my eyes. Electricity swirls between us, but before I have time to analyze it the scrape of the curtain rings bring our attention to the nurse.
“The local P.D. will send someone down to take your statement. Now, understand that as scary as it seems right now, you’re doing the right thing.” God, is that going to be everyone’s answer? “You will be provided with plenty of support, and security.”
I nod at her reassurances. How many times has she seen women like me through these halls? How many came back in a worse condition after doing the ‘right thing’? How many never returned to this floor, but instead to the cold confines of the morgue?
She gives Neighbor a quick nod, and disappears with the signature billow of the curtain. Again, lost in our own private world, I rest my head on his shoulder. His presence soothes the hollowness that aches every time I think of what the future will bring.
“I don’t know your name,” I think aloud.
“It’s Malice,” he whispers, and presses a gentle kiss to my crown.
“Malice,” I repeat. What a contradiction that is, considering I’ve seen little evidence that he’s earned such a title.
“You won’t be alone anymore.” He puts an arm around me loosely, and sighs.
The promise sounds so lovely, but as much as he’s here for me now, I remind myself not to attach myself to him too tightly. There will come a day when he goes back to his life, and leaves me to my own—whatever it will be. Nobody sticks around forever; certainly nobody who has no obligation to stay.
His head rests on top of mine, and I shut my eyes once more and smile.
Maybe he will let me go one day, but for now, I’ll live the lie.
For now I’ll pretend he’s mine forever.
Whatever I need to do to make it through.
THIS IS going to get a lot worse before it’s over. A lot.
I should have minded my own business, stayed away as I had for the countless weeks, months, before that night. But how many times could I be expected to listen to that fucking coward beat the shit out of her, and be okay with myself?
I had to do something.
And looking at her sitting here now, trying to be strong while her face is a mess of old bruises, and two of her ribs are in pieces, I know I stepped in at the right time.
Another week and he would have killed her.
Intentional or not.
And that would have meant I had to kill him.
Intentional or not.
“I’ve rented that house I told you about. I’ll take you and Rocco there.”
She lifts her head from my shoulder and looks up at me. The swelling around her jaw stops her from smiling properly, and it comes off as a lop-sided grimace.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I did, Jane.”
“Why?”
My resolve is thinning. I want to be cool, calm, and collected around her. She’s been frightened enough for one lifetime. But every time she says something so incredibly stupid like that, I want to flip my lid, tell her to pull her fucking head in, wake up and smell the roses.
“What do you think will happen if you go home? That’s where you’re thinking of going, right?” I scathe.
She moves minutely, but the body language is incredibly clear.
“Shit, I’m sorry. “ I hang my head, and draw a few deep breaths. Oxygen is clarity. I need to breathe for a bit.
“Don’t be sorry,” she mutters. “You’re right.”
I look across to see her sitting the same way as I was—head hung, and defeated.
“I still shouldn’t have said it like that.” My hand finds its way to her cheek, brushing her stray hairs behind her ear. So fucking silky.
“I guess,” she starts, then draws a deep breath. “I guess I don’t get why you’d care.” The words tumble from her mouth, and she stares at the ceiling, blinking back tears.
“It would be inhuman not to.”
She nods at my answer, all the while, I’m wondering where the fuck that line came from. I’m anything but human. Animal, monster, tyrant, bully—I could go on for days.
I’m certainly not Joe nice guy.
Until her.
“The police can escort you into your house to get some things if it makes you feel safer.” Lord knows I’d feel better about it.
“No.” Her head shakes violently, side to side. “I don’t want any of that stuff.”
“You’ll need clothes, Jane.”
“We’ve got some savings. I can go to the bank, and ask them to give me a withdrawal. I don’t have our account number, or any ID, but I’m sure they can do something for me. If not, then—”
“Shh.” I place a finger over her lips to stop the incessant rambling. “Worry about it later.”
Truth is, I’d buy this woman a whole fucking walk-in robe of clothing if it made her relax. But I’m thinking now isn’t the time to share that.
“Thank you. For everything.”
Her head finds that sweet spot on my shoulder again, and I drop my nose into her hair. “Don’t sweat it.”
She doesn’t flinch when I wrap my hand around the far side of her, and scoot her closer so that we’re sitting right up against each other. Instead, she sighs. Fucking sighs.
This woman is going to be the end of everything I know.
Of everything I am.
But fuckin’ hell, I’m ready to jump on that ride.
“HERE.”
Malice helps me up the steps to his front door, even though I could do it on my own—albeit slower. He swings the door open, and scoops an over-excited Rocco aside.
“Careful, mate. Mom needs to be looked after.”
I smile as I watch him scruff Rocco behind the ears, and lead him back to the living room. “On your bed, buddy.”
My dog obeys, clearly taken with his new master. Traitor.
“Have a seat. You thirsty?”
“Jonesing for a coffee.” I lower myself on shaky le
gs down to the seat of the armchair, scoot backwards, and lie my head on the back.
We were at the ER for what felt like days, weeks even. I’m so tired, so much so I swear I could sleep for days on end.
“You have to take your meds with food,” Malice calls from the kitchen. “I’ll bring you a sandwich.”
There’s no arguing with him—I’ve learnt that already. I close my eyes, and drop my head back. The tension I’ve harbored for the last few hours whooshes free of my lungs. I smile at the stupidity of it all, but his house already feels more like home than the house I paid a mortgage on for years ever did.
“The cops will be around in an hour, they said. We’ll be gone before then, just in case he shows up, anything happens. You know?”
I nod, unaware if he can see me, but speaking right now would break my trance. At this moment I’m living the lie, pretending his house is my house, that this is the norm for me. For whatever reason¸ speaking seems like it would shatter my dream faster than glass on concrete.
A nudge at my shoulder jolts me from my illusion, and I open my eyes to find him standing beside me, holding a plate with a sandwich, and a glass of water.
“Here.”
I adjust my seat, and take the items from him. The first bites of the sandwich are heaven on my buds—even if it is simply cheese, and tomato.
He drags a small table from next to the couch, and positions it beside my chair. With gentle hands he takes the glass from me again, and sets it down on the table, placing the painkillers next to it.
“Anything else?”
I shake my head at him, mouth too full to speak.
“Good.”
He vanishes back to the kitchen, and Rocco commando crawls off the bed to lie at my feet, waiting on scraps. Some habits die hard. I give him a crust, and wonder how tomato never tasted so good before now? Maybe it’s true what they say about putting love into the food you make. In that case, Dylan has been eating shit all these years.
I snort at the thought, and narrowly avoid spraying chewed bread over Rocco. Not that I think he’d mind, but I don’t plan on being that much of a mess around Malice. As ludicrous as it is, I still want to try and impress him, be lady-like and feminine—despite the fact he’s seen me at my worst now.