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With a new resolve setting in my bones, I push the elevator button to take me back to the scene of the crime. My anger grows stronger with each floor passing by, and when the elevator doors finally open, I’m a man on a warpath. I walk fuming to our door, passing the key card to the suite and rush inside, my venomous words ready to make an appearance. But when I pass the threshold to the room where Valentina is, the furious wind is knocked out of me.
Sitting on the floor, naked as the day she was born, Valentina’s head is bowed down, focused on a shattered piece of glass in her hand, her wrist beckoning to be sacrificed. My knees fall at her side, my trembling hands gently tearing the illicit thing away from her, but she doesn’t even register my presence.
“Baby, what are you doing?” My voice is hoarse and full of panic at the sight in front of me.
She doesn’t look up at me, but just stares at her empty hand, almost as if she still sees the shard of glass in her grasp. I inspect her body thoroughly to see if she’s hurt, her scraped up knees and bloody arms telling me all her cuts are superficial.
Thank fucking god.
Gently, I lift her chin up with my knuckles, and my heart stops when I see her gorgeous hazel gold eyes are in a daze. So unfocused and blank, I’m not sure she even knows it’s me in this room with her.
“Baby, you’re hurt,” I say, my voice uncharacteristically quivering in the end.
Again, there is no reaction whatsoever from her. It’s almost as if her soul has left her body and all there is left is an empty shell.
“Valentina…” I whisper again, my eyes prickling with despair.
When she doesn’t say anything but keeps looking at her empty hands, my stomach churns as if I’m going to throw up.
“You’re hurt, baby. I need to take you to the hospital.”
Sure, her lacerations aren’t enough to warrant a trip to the emergency room, but that’s not why I want a doctor to see her. Valentina—my Valentina—is no longer here with me, and I need to know how I can bring her back.
“N-No hospitals,” she stammers, her body beginning to tremble.
I’m washed with relief that some life is coming back to her, but my gut still insists I take her to a doctor. I’m about to protest when her hands latch onto mine and her eyes start to clear from the heavy fog they were under. “No hospitals,” she repeats, and this time, her words are crisper, more urgent.
“No hospitals,” I echo, even though every fiber in my being begs me not to give in.
But my sliced-up heart is no match when facing Valentina’s pain.
It never was.
I carefully pick her up from the floor and head to the bathroom to clean up her wounds at least. She cradles her head into the crook of my neck, and I realize just how feather light she is. The girl I grew up with had curves in all the right places, but the woman in my arms doesn’t hold the same healthy glow or body. I sit her next to the tub, and she shivers the instant my body no longer soothes her with my warmth. I swallow dryly, taking in each inch of my love. Her ribs are too pronounced for me to ignore. The dark shade under her eyes and sunken cheeks are also apparent to me now.
How did I miss these changes?
Easy.
While I was protecting the last sliver of my soul from her grasp, I failed to see what was right in front of me—a very frail woman clutching to thin ribbons of sanity. I shake that horrid thought away and look everywhere for a first aid kit. Thankfully, I find one under the sink, and with delicate care, I try to clean her wounds. It’s a pointless effort though, when she keeps shivering so profusely.
This won’t do.
I get up off the floor and fill the large bath, making sure the water is warm enough to heat her cold bones. When I’ve made sure the tub is full enough, I pick my love up in my arms and gently place her inside. A small hiss spills from her lips when her cold body comes in contact with the warm water. When she lays back and closes her eyes, I feel more helpless than I ever did. It’s almost as if I’m witnessing the real life version of Ophelia fromHamletmeet her untimely end in her watery grave. The image is scorched into my brain in such a way, my own hand trembles as I begin to clean her wounds.
“Why are you taking care of me?” she hushes, tears streaking down her face. “You left.”
“I came back,” I reply, trying hard to keep my voice as neutral as possible so she doesn’t hear the panic in my voice.
“Why?” she asks, her lids slowly opening up, making me realize what a strenuous effort it is for her.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m here now.”
She turns her head away from me to stare at the wall, the cloudy haze beginning to take her under again.
“Valentina! Look at me, baby,” I order, pulling her chin my way.
She looks so fucking tired. Gaunt and exhausted.
