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He did tell me he could only give me one night. My brain listened but my heart and body didn’t.
And the way we made love last night… When I close my eyes, I can still feel it.
The words he said to me before leaving ricochet through my mind.
“I’m very bad for you. I’m dangerous. I’ll hurt you. I’m not healed.” And later, the logistics, as if I were some puzzle he still had to solve, so that he could walk away for good, case closed, file locked away. “The DA will contact you. We can communicate via text message while we sort legal things out. I’ll keep security on you while we deal with it.”
I bristle with anger at how much of a cop it all seemed. And how little time he spent explaining. It felt like three minutes, like he couldn’t get away fast enough.
He didn’t even want to try.
Nor would he listen when I told him I didn’t need security. I don’t want to live that way, especially when the guards are paid by him. I don’t want that.
In a sudden burst of pain, longing and humiliation, I get to my feet, heading to the kitchen of my tiny basement suite as I rip his letter to shreds.
I don’t want any more of that man inside me.
I don’t want to hear his words in my head.
I don’t want to have to heal from him again.
I just want to recover the pieces of me that are broken.
As I grab the four torn pieces of letter and envelope, I open the paper recycling bin only to stop.
Instead, in a move I hate, I take the pieces and pull away the baseboard under one of the weathered cupboards in the kitchen, a secret hiding place for my valuables. I take out the shallow box I keep there, placing the pieces at the bottom of the items already in there, closing it up and hiding it again before putting the baseboard back into place.
I go over to my bed, my clothes still on from the long drive, get in and pull the covers over me, closing my eyes to stop tears from falling from them as I say a silent prayer that forgetting him will be easier than I hope.
30
Indigo
One month later
“So… we’ve agreed to you not filing any charges against him in exchange for him taking a five-year plea deal for assault on the man, with a minimum of three years to serve.”
“Okay… And the victim agrees to that?” I ask, thinking of the poor man who ended up with a face full of glass and broken bones at the hands of the maniac I can’t even believe I once dated.
“Yes. He doesn’t want this to drag on for years. He wants to move on with his life.”
“God, I don’t blame him. The poor thing.”
“He’s doing a lot better. He’s regained some sensation in his face.”
My hand meets my chest in relief. “Thank God.”
“He’ll still need some surgeries on his eye though.”
“Shit.”
“Perhaps for the rest of his life.”
“Oh my God,” I whisper, unable to comprehend the trauma that poor man must have gone through.
“As far as you’re concerned, the condition for us not pressing charges for stalking or assault on you is thatallharassment and communication by him, his family members, or anyone associated with him stops. We made it clear that if it starts up again, he’ll be facing a litany of charges that could keep him behind bars for over a decade.”
“And…”
