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I loved that damn couch.
A rich green velvet tufted thing that looked right out of a gothic novel.
It was discontinued.
Irreplaceable.
I was still looking at that couch when a shadow moved in my peripheral.
I noticed it quickly enough to have my stomach drop as it got close, but not fast enough to run, to scream, to fight.
One moment, it was coming at me, the next thing I knew, something was slamming into my face, then my face was slamming against the floor as I fell after cracking the cheap coffee table in half as I went down.
Which only crushed my chest, making it hard to suck in a breath, let alone move, before I felt a hand sink into the hair at the nape of my neck, grabbing, twisting, then slamming my head back down on the ground once again, making my vision flash white for one horrifying moment, making me think I was going to pass out.
Then what would happen to me?
I had to get up.
I had to fight.
Even as I tried to do so, my hair was yanked then I was slammed forward again. This time, I’d managed to turn my head, so the blow landed to my lower face, making my teeth ache, and my jaw scream.
I got my arms up under me just as the hands left my hair.
By the time I got onto all fours, then up onto my knees to stand, whoever was in my apartment had grabbed the decorative vase near my door, and slammed it into the side of my head.
Everything went black after that.
I woke up sprawled over my broken coffee table, my whole head feeling like a bruise.
A headache was screaming in my temple and there was the taste of old blood in my mouth.
But I seemed to be alone.
“Ow. Ow ow ow,” I whimpered as I folded up, using the couch to help me get up slowly, the pain intensifying with each movement, no matter how careful.
“Okay. Alright,” I murmured to myself as I finally gained my feet, walking over toward the doorway where a mirror was on the wall. “Oh, shit,” I hissed, looking at my reflection.
I’d always been pale.
Which meant I bruised like a peach.
I had no idea how long I’d been passed out, but it was long enough for some bruises to start settling in. At my temple, my jaw, and in a semicircle around one of my eyes. My lip was split and there was a kinda nasty gash near my hairline that was still bleeding pretty steadily.
“Fuck,” I whined, reaching up to touch my face with the gentlest of pressure that still managed to send a rush of pain through me. “Oh, fuck,” I grumbled as I walked to the kitchen to grab a clean dishcloth, pressing it up to the cut at my hairline.
Within a few moments of pressing it there while glancing around my apartment to make sure I was alone, though, the rag was almost soaked through.
“Okay. Alright,” I said, self-soothing a bit as I grabbed the purse that had gone flying when I’d fallen. Fishing out my keys, I made my way out of the apartment building and to my car.
There weren’t a lot of options for healthcare in our small town. And I felt a twinge of guilt as I turned my car in the direction of Dr. Price’s office.
There was no urgent care and no hospital close by.
And, well, they might report the attack to the police.
Which I couldn’t have because, yeah, I was pretty sure my attack was because of the drugs. I mean, sure, burglars ransacked your place. But they didn’t gut your couches. They didn’t break your dishes.
