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“I’m okay, Mom,” I told her, feeling tears well in my eyes because, I don’t know. Moms could just do that to us, it seemed. “I managed to fight him off and I, ah, I stabbed him, then he ran. I’m okay.”
“That’s my girl,” my father said, and I could practically see him nodding his approval.
“Did he… did he touch you?” my mom asked, voice tight.
“He tried to,” I admitted. I didn’t need to tell them about him cutting off my clothes. About the pictures. I hoped the news didn’t know those parts either, so they could be spared from that truth. At least for the time being. “I just… I wanted to tell you guys before you heard it on the news. But I’m okay. I talked to the police. I went to the hospital—“
“The hospital?” my mom squeaked.
“Thought you said you were okay,” my father said at the same time, his booming voice all but drowning out her much softer one.
“I am okay,” I insisted. “I got hit a few times, so they just wanted to make sure I don’t have a concussion. I don’t. I’m fine.”
I was good at this.
Compartmentalizing my own feelings when dealing with my parents.
They were both big with their emotions, just in different ways. My mom with hysterics. My dad with rage. So I’d needed to be the calm and rational one my whole life, easing them into things, putting my own feelings aside to soothe over theirs.
Did that land me in a lot of therapy during college? It sure did. Was it a contributing factor to why I didn’t want to move back to that area? Yes, absolutely.
The conversation was a lot more questions from them and reassurances from me before I managed to say the one thing to get them off the phone.
“I have to get going. I have an appointment with the detective on the case.”
It was an easy lie, based half in truth, and it got me off the phone, and I sank onto the edge of the bed, taking deep breaths until my anxiety dissipated.
I waited to leave the hotel until rush hour was in full swing, wanting as many eyes as possible to see me, to be available should I need help.
Banking down my insecurity, I walked into the pharmacy and made quick work of tossing things into the hand cart.
A two pack of leggings. A bag of three mens black tees. Slides for shoes. Makeup, bath stuff, a charger, notepad, and a bottle of medicine for the aches and pains and the now throbbing headache behind my eyes.
I grabbed sunglasses at the register for good measure, slipping them and the shoes on as soon as I stepped out of the store, feeling a lot less conspicuous as soon as I did so.
I felt almost human again after a long shower, and the painstaking application of my makeup. Sure, if you were aware the bruises were there, you could see them, but if you weren’t, you would assume it was just a trick of light.
Taking a deep breath, I opened my phone to hail another ride.
I didn’t get Julie again, of course, but there was a woman available.
I asked her to drive me to my house.
“Whoa, what’s going on here?” she asked, driving down the street.
Leaning between the streets, I saw what she was seeing.
News vans outside of my house.
“Wait,” I said, voice a bit frantic. “Stop,” I added. “Sorry. Ah, I can’t handle that right now,” I said, making her turn to look over her shoulder at me.
“This is for you?” she asked, her brown eyes going round. “Wait… oh.Oh,” she said, wincing. And I knew she’d seen the news. That she knew. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“Get me out of here,” I demanded, voice desperate as one of the newscasters was staring at the car idling on the street.
“Yeah, of course,” she said, whipping the car into a quick K-turn. “Where am I taking you?” she asked.
“The police station,” I said, getting a nod out of her.
