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I lift my gaze to the mirror, recognizing I stood here earlier tonight. In another life. I still don’t feel anything as I look at what he’s done to me, I just study the facts. There are crescent-shaped, bluish-black bruises under both eyes. My lips are swollen and bruised, as is my nose. There’s dried blood in both nostrils as well as smeared on my chin and both cheeks. I have broad, purplish strangle marks circling my throat.
A sudden wave of nausea surges through me, and I dry retch in the sink several times, my eyes watering from the pain in my throat, the taste of bile sour in my mouth. When I’m done, I lean my forehead against the cold mirror and close my eyes. I’ve seen enough.
I turn on the shower and shed my clothes, step by step, every move pure agony. The pain is getting worse. Maybe the morphine is wearing off? ThankGodthey drugged me. I’m not sure I could have managed the walk home without it.
The scalding water burns my skin raw, making me whimper, forcing me to focus on the physical pain instead of the shattering heart inside that seems to fall apart more and more with every passing minute.
I stand for a long time with my face turned up in the stream, my eyes closed. Unthinking. Unmoving.
When the first sob wracks my chest, it’s like opening a dam. I can’t stop. I scream hoarsely into the water, gulping for air when I run out of cries. My knees buckle and I slither to the bottom of the tub, drenched in heated steam, in pouring wetness, and in sorrow over what I’ve lost.
My life.
The mafia has put a price on my head, and my life is forfeit. I sit there forever, with the water streaming over me, hugging my knees and cry. I still feel his hands on me, his heart beating against mine, his breath, his scent, his taste in my mouth. I still feel him in me.
I wash, and wash, and wash. Soap, lather, rinse, soap, lather, rinse. Then I dry off, wrap a blanket tightly around my battered body and fall into a restless sleep on the floor in my living room.
I miss by hours when I should have called in sick to work. When I finally do, I call it ‘flu’ and they tell me I sound terrible.
Waking with a jolt, I suddenly know what I must do. I shake when I put on clothes, layers upon layers. I’m so, so cold. Pulling my curtain to the side, just an inch, I peek out the window, seeing no one. I don’t know if someone’s out there, but I don’t have a choice. I sneak out, slam my fist against my neighbor’s door, my demented duplex buddy, a retired army major.
When the door opens a crack, I exhale. I didn’t even know I was holding my breath. My back prickles and I can barely get air, my chest tightening. I feel unprotected under the open sky.
“Major Edwards. Can I come in, please?”
He opens a little wider, staring at me. His eyes are a light blue with a white ring circling the edge of the iris. He looks completely blank.
“Who is this?”
“It’s me, Kerry, your neighbor. We share a wall. Can I please, please come in?” I rasp.
We’ve been neighbors for a year. We greet each other more or less every day. He hasn’t got all the horses in the stable anymore.
“Miss Kerry! Of course.”
With a sigh of relief, I sneak in, glancing behind me one last time before I close the door.
“What can I do you for? I have coffee. Do you want a cup? Did you hurt yourself, miss?” He peers at me, taking in my bruises.
“I can’t stay, Mr. Edwards. I have a very, very big favor to ask,” I chew on my lip, praying to God that he will agree to this, “I need to borrow a gun.”
Safely back behindmy own door, I lock and bolt it, make sure all my windows are closed and covered, then I sink down on the little nest I made last night in front of the patio door. It’s not possible to come through the garden. It ends in a steep slope, and on the sides are my neighbors’ gardens, divided by high walls. At least it would be really difficult.
I put the loaded gun under a pillow, making sure the safety is on, and wrap the blanket tightly around me again. I curl up on my side, facing the front door, listening, waiting.
Sooner or later I’ll have to rise, get up, and get out. I know that. But I also know I need time.
A lot of time.
I still feel his skin on mine.
I don’t know if it’ll ever go away.
I don’t want to think about him, but I can’t seem to think of anything else. If he lives, he’ll come for me. If he died, someone else will.
I should run, or maybe I should try to trust the police, but I know the mob has cops on their payroll, and how can I ever know I’m talking to the right person?
A low whining moves up my throat as the tears begin to fall again. I feel nothing but pain. Nothing. I don’t feel victorious that I survived. My life has been forever changed.
