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He bends over me, so his lips brush my ear, “I hope you’ve finally learned your lesson, Heather. I hate having to punish you like this.”
Right. Sure. That’s evident by his semen leaking out of me.
He pushes off me causing one last spike of pain, and tucks himself back into his slacks.
“Clean up, and then go to bed to rest. I don’t want to see any evidence of this when I’m done with my shower.” Steven turns after his order, knowing I’ll obey him. My eyes track him up the stairs until I can no longer see him.
I count down from sixty before I can bring myself to move. I don’t check the tears streaming down my face while I tidy the mess in his study. It’s all to keep myself safe from his next rage-induced abuse, and to keep myself busy while I accept this recent trauma. Then, I add it to the ‘Grand Canyon’ sized hole I’ve dug to toss all my trauma into. That’s all the time I allow myself to grieve this rape.
My head pounds with each movement, and I make a note to take some of the pain medication I store inside my bedside table.
I wipe up my tears and sweat, mixed with some mucus, and then fix the papers and items on the desk. Making my way across the entryway, I hear the shower come on, telling me I don’t have much time, so I quicken my pace. I clean up from dinner and fish the crayon out from under Zander’s little table, and put it in his art cubby.
Taking one last look around to check that everything is as Steven expects it, I climb the stairs to get into bed. Each step is agony for my abused body, and my head throbs with stabbing pain, festering on the side that was pushed into the desktop.
In the master bedroom, I strip down and wet a washcloth in one of two sinks to clean between my legs. The warmth helps ease my pain. Picking up my clothes and bringing the washcloth with me, I dump them all into the hamper and get a nightgown from a drawer in my dresser. I let the soft material fall down my body. When it covers my ass, I’m reminded of the belt when even the silky gown makes my ass sing in pain.
I hear the water in the shower turn off, and I pop two pain pills, swallowing them without water.
Normally I’d wash my makeup from the day off and moisturize, but I don’t dare defy Steven and risk another assault so soon.
Pulling the thick duvet and sheet back, I slip between the Egyptian cotton and lay facing away from Steven’s side. A small act of defiance. The only action I can take without repercussions. Thankfully, it’s the side with less pain, so I don’t have to put pressure on it. It still hurts, but I can deal with this pain easily compared to the rest radiating through my body.
I’m at my breaking point. I’m afraid if I don’t get out now, Steven will end up killing me, leaving Zander with no one to shield him.
In the past, fear has kept me in this situation. But it’s like a switch has been flipped, and now, that same fear is my motivator to get free.
My first step is to go to the police station to get this event on record.
The light from the bathroom goes out, only the light from Steven’s bedside lamp is on, and he gets into bed nude.
I close my eyes, praying that he leaves me alone and goes to sleep. Still, I somehow manage to fall asleep.
2 Way Out
Far from Home (The Raven) by Sam Tinnesz
Eachstepintothepolice department has dread coiling in my stomach. I question if this is the right choice or if I’m a bit more patient, things will change, and Steven will see his behavior for what it is.
Abusive.
Officers and other people pass me by in a hurry to get to their destinations. Oblivious to my inner torment.
Uncertain of what to expect, I donned my armor and dressed in navy blue slacks with a crisp middle seam and a cream, flowy blouse tucked into the waist. Three-inch pumps matching the color of my blouse adorn my feet and clack with each step on the concrete in front of the police station. The building towers over me, but that’s nothing new. Steven does the same, only in a much more intrusive and menacing way.
Approaching the front, a uniformed officer holds open the glass-paned door for me. I slip through, offering a quiet, “Thanks.” Not fully meeting his eyes.
Once fully inside, there is a pane of glass sitting atop a long counter with three officers behind it. One is on the phone, and the other two are helping people on my side of the counter. I wait my turn.
As each second ticks by, my resolve to go through with this weakens, but I can’t get my feet to take me out of the building.
Lost in my fight to get my feet going, the woman behind the desk calls, “Next,” in a raised voice to get my attention.
It appears it’s my turn. My heeled feet offer me a false sense of confidence. Without them, I’d never come close to faking, and my back stiffens as my shoulders pull back.
“How can I help you ma’am?” the female police officer asks through a metal speaker cut into the glass.
“I need to report an assault,” I say, my voice quivering.
