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Chancing a look over at the door with suspicion, I reached my hands to my borrowed shirt, slowly undoing the buttons, heart thudding hard in my chest as I did.
I’d already seen the gash in my stomach, the bruises, and scratches on my legs. But a part of me simply needed to see everything, to know each injury.
There wasn’t much else, I decided as I got onto my tiptoes, turning to look over my back that had some superficial scrapes, like maybe I had caught it on tree branches or something.
Scrapes from what, though, I wondered.
How had I found myself bleeding in a forest, at the mercy of some mountain man who clearly didn’t want the hassle of dealing with me?
Who had cut me? And why?
My gaze slid down my body, cringing a bit at the ugly stitches, the bit of dried blood around them, then downward.
The bruises gave me pause.
On my thighs. Deep, painful to the touch.
My belly turned over as I looked at them.
There was a clear reason for bruises and cuts on my face. Someone hit me, or I fell.
But my thighs, the fleshy bits of fat and muscle that didn’t exactly bruise easily no matter how many cabinets I jammed myself against.
Bruises on thighs, the sizes of fingers.
A fist of fear wedged itself in my throat, knowing the only logical reason thighs might have finger-shaped bruises spanning my thighs.
Fear turned to sick as I threw myself down in front of the toilet, yanking open the lid, only having a moment to be curious about the strange mix of shredded wood there like you might find in the bottom of a hamster cage before the bile rose up and demanded exit, leaving me retching, each movement bringing a stab of pain to my stomach.
But there was no stopping it once it started until all there was in my stomach was gone, leaving me desperately blowing my nose and wiping my face.
I sat there on my ankles for a long moment, cold and hot all at once, not sure which I wanted more.
To know.
Or never to.
I could know, I imagined.
If I walked out, asked Ranger to bring me into whatever was the closest town, go to a hospital, ask for a rape kit. Knees in stirrups as someone scraped around inside me.
The idea made my stomach swirl as I moved to stand, reaching for the flush handle, finding an odd lever I had missed before.
I couldn’t claim to know a lot about homesteading and small house living, but I knew enough to be able to recognize the concept of a composting toilet at least.
It was then I noticed a bucket of the chips sitting beside the toilet. A bit unsure, I grabbed a handful, covering up the contents of my stomach, then turning the lever in a few circles before gaining my feet, buttoning my shirt back up, reaching for the sink faucet, turning it, almost a little surprised when clear water trickled out. I rinsed out my mouth with shaking hands, then found the courage to move back out of the privacy of the bathroom, finding Ranger standing in his kitchen, hand gulping up a speckled mug.
“Coffee?” he asked. “No fancy shit,” he added, making no comment about my throwing up which must have been rather loud to him in such a small space.
“I, ah, I don’t know what you mean by fancy shit. But if you have milk and sugar…”
“That I have,” he agreed, moving around, making it without asking how light or how sweet.
Not that I was about to complain. With a mind as foggy as mine – any coffee was better than no coffee.
“Want food?” he asked, sliding a mug toward me, sitting down across from me.
“Probably not a good idea just yet,” I admitted, looking down at the steaming caramel-colored liquid.
There was a long beat, just the sounds of nails on the floor as the dog from the room came to sit down beside me.
“So what are you gonna do?” Ranger asked, making me take a steadying breath, unable to find words. “You want me to bring you to a doctor? Runs some scans, check my stitches, give you some antibiotics just in case, run a kit.”
The last part made my head snap up, finding him watching me with those deep eyes.
“Saw the bruises too,” he informed me, making no small bit of embarrassment flood my system, realizing with clarity for the first time that he had seen me completely naked while I was unconscious. “You want a test,” he added. “You need to know.”
“They’ll bring in the police.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “And you’ll have to give your story.”
“What story?” I demanded, voice a little high, hysterical. “I don’t have a story,” I added, voice lower, broken, prompting a little whimpering noise from the K-9 sentry who rested his head down on my lap.
