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“It wouldn’t be your fault if you were,” he said carefully.
“No, really. I’m not. I just… got involved with the wrong kind of people, I guess,” I said, shrugging.
To that, his eyes darkened a little, knowing it was a gray, dangerous area. Even if he wanted to press, he couldn’t.
“Okay. But if you ever need a safe place to be, I’m always here. There are rooms you can stay in until you can figure out your next move.”
“Thank you. Really. I am going to get it all sorted,” I said. I even did it with some conviction. Though, at that moment, I had no idea how I was going to do that.
All I knew was that I couldn’t be getting attacked in my own home, beaten so badly that I needed stitches. That was not a reality I was willing to keep living in.
“Alright,” he said a few minutes later after the local got a chance to kick in. “Let’s get this started,” he said.
I let my eyes flutter closed as he worked, figuring it would be less terrible if I didn’t know exactly what was going on as he did it.
In my head, my mind could only seem to focus on one thing.
The tiny, minute details of the attack.
I thought, maybe, if I went over it in painstaking detail, fleshing it out, making the images clearer around the corners, I might be able to get a face.
In the end, though, all there seemed to be was a dark hood that shadowed a face.
The best description I could come up with was maybe someone who was five-eleven. Not small, size-wise, but not hefty or ripped either. Just… average.
Strong, though.
And fast.
I had barely been able to react, let alone try to fight back or even defend myself.
Though, I guess I could count myself really lucky that he hadn’t done worse to me. Sure, I had a migraine. Bruises. Stitches getting sewn into my head. But I didn’t have busted ribs or broken bones. He hadn’t raped me.
It was a sad day when you were counting only being slightly beaten a blessing. But this was my new reality, it seemed.
“Okay. You can open your eyes,” Dr. Price said, scooting his stool away to clean and dispose of his supplies. “How about I prescribe you a couple of pain pills to help you with that headache?” he asked, tone careful.
Because aside from maybe Dell, Dr. Price was the only person who knew about my mother and the depths of her addiction. Partly because I’d mentioned once that addiction ran in my family. And partly because he’d once pumped my mother’s stomach when she’d, somehow, gotten alcohol poisoning despite being a lifelong drinker.
“I know you want to object,” he said, turning to face me and letting out a breath. “I am just suggesting it because that headache might get better after some sleep, or it might get worse. It might give you some peace knowing you will have something to use if you can’t take it anymore.”
“Okay,” I agreed, nodding. The pharmacy wouldn’t be open until the morning anyway. If the pain was better, I could just toss the script.
“In the meantime, the gas station carries ibuprofen, acetaminophen, and over-the-counter migraine meds. You can try that. Cool compress. But don’t touch the stitches. And those come out in ten to fourteen days. You don’t need to schedule an appointment. You can just drop in whenever you have time.”
“Thank you. Really. I’m sorry I had to drag you out of bed like this.”
“Part of the job,” he said, shrugging. “Between me and you, I would prefer a little stitching rather than a projectile-vomiting kid with the stomach bug,” he told me, giving me a small smile.
“How much do I owe you?” I asked.
“Do you not want me to hit up your medical insurance?” he asked.
The Murphys were good employers. Which meant all of us had some kickass insurance.
“Do you have to put down how I got the injuries?” I asked.
“Not if you didn’t tell me,” he said, giving me a smirk because I hadn’t exactly told him what had happened.
