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“Maybe you should put something on thatscratch,” Max suggested, passing back a towel that smelled like chlorine.
Lars pulled away to take the towel and press it hard against my side. I bit the inside of my lip to keep from groaning in pain.
“This is all my fault,” Lars said, worrying his lower lip as he leaned even harder into the towel.
I winced. “Ease up there, Superman.” I cautioned, trying to shift away.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
Forgetting the knife wound in my side, I grabbed his chin, hoping the blood smearing my hand was not from him.
“Look at me,” I commanded, waiting for him to do just that. When he did, I told him, “This is not your fault. It’s his. You are not responsible for his actions, and you sure as fuck don’t deserve his violence.”
“That’s not what he says,” Lars whispered.
“You should have hit him more,” Max intoned from up front.
“Yeah, well, he’s a liar,” I announced, the adrenaline starting to wear off, leaving me drained and uncomfortable. “Hang in there, angel.” I encouraged him, rubbing my hand down his back. “We’re almost to the hospital.”
“I’m fine, Win. I’ve had worse.”
Max was right. I should have hit Oskar more.
34
Lars
Win’s “scratch”needed twenty stitches.
Twenty.
Scratch, my ass.
My arm needed nine, and the bite wound on my collarbone, five. I didn’t even want the five, but the plastic surgeon said if he stitched it up, it would heal better and the scarring would be minimal. I acquiesced because it was one less scar Win would have to see.
We also got tetanus shots, and I got X-rays of my ribs. I tried to tell everyone they weren’t broken, but no one listened—especially Win—so to radiology I went.
FYI, I was right. Not broken, just bruised.
The super-fun times continued with a photo shoot. These nurses were really obsessed with my Scandinavian features. I was on the fast track to becoming America’s next top model.
Fine, I’m being sarcastic. Can you blame a guy?
Standing mostly naked in front of a plain white wall while photo after photo was taken of my injuries—no, of the evidence of the domestic violence I endured—was degrading. The shame I felt was hard enough without having to lay it all out and have it captured in photos that would last forever.
With every flash and click of the camera, it was as if something else were stolen from me, a bright spotlight as I stood and wondered if I had anything left at all.
“Tilt your chin up please,” the photographer instructed. I wasn’t sure if they were hospital staff or police. “Turn slightly.” I turned. “Hold.”
I did my best to shut off my emotions and let the rest of me go numb like the injuries that had been stitched. Normally, I was pretty good at compartmentalizing. But normally, Win wasn’t standing off to the side, his glittering hazel eyes unblinking as he stared.
I couldn’t remain numb when he stood there watching me being debased. Would I be damaged goods to him now? Carnage? Would what was left of me still outweigh the risk?
Sudden movement made me flinch, shrinking back toward the barren wall as a hand reached for my boxers. I hated that my first reaction was to recoil instead of standing strong and defending myself.
Another hand shot out, grabbing the one trying to grope me. “Keep your hands to yourself.” Win’s voice was quiet, but the warning was the sharpened edge of a sword.
“The bruise on the thigh,” the person said, clinical. Detached. Like my humiliation was nothing more than a job. Like I wasn’t standing there baring my weakest moments, my most private pain.
