Page 4 of Saved By Two

“It’s okay. Just take a moment.”

He reaches for the bottle of water and hands it to me, helping me sit forward to take a few sips before speaking.

"Honestly, I’m not sure, but I think so.” My cheeks heat—not from embarrassment but shame.

“All right, in that case, would you like me to take some swabs? We can rule out any potential STDs, and also if you do decide to press charges, it could later be used as evidence.”

Of course, he’s right. I have no idea who Curtis might have been with besides me. He constantly harped on about how I was likely cheating on him, but it would no longer surprise me if he was just projecting his indiscretions onto me. Why can I see so much more with a renewed sense of clarity?

Probably because he beat me unconscious, and it took waking up the way I did to act—even if running is the coward's way out.

It’s not like I’ve been anywhere in the last few months. I lost my place at culinary school—I couldn’t turn up covered in bruises. I’m so fucking ashamed of myself, and I fight hard to keep my sob at bay, but it’s no use.

Mitchell touches my shoulder to comfort me as I cry, and then he passes me some tissues. I wipe at my cheeks and under my nose, angry with myself and Curtis.

Eventually, I manage to speak around a hiccup, “I think it’s better to be safe than sorry.” The words taste bitter. If I’d had the guts to leave him sooner, I wouldn’t be in this sorry state. I only have myself to blame.

He studies me. “Hey, you’ve done nothing wrong. You know this isn’t your fault, right?”

I scoff at that. Easy for him to say; he wasn’t the one who allowed this to happen. No, that’s all on me.

“Do you want me to give you a few minutes?”

His bedside manner constricts my chest even more, his kindness almost too much.

“No,” I reply in a rush. “Thank you, let’s just get it over with.”

Unable to look at him any longer, I roll my head back onto the pillow and stare at the ceiling. I listen to him as he gathers whatever he needs, and then I start counting in my head. I don’t even stop when he asks me to spread my legs. I’m on autopilot now as I attempt to hide inside my mind, which would work better if I couldn’t feel him taking swabs.

I close my eye and breathe, the pain from my ribs overpowering the stinging from between my legs.

Why did I wait so long before finally leaving the bastard? Oh, that’s right, because for some reason, I believe in second and third and fourth chances, it would seem.

I hate to admit the fact this could have been prevented after the first time. I should have walked away. Instead, I allowed him to gaslight me as though it were my doing, that he wasn’t in control of his fist. His anger had always been verbal until the first time he hit me. I think I was in shock.

Before that, it was always with his words, psychological and emotional.

He grovelled after and brought me a bunch of my favourite flowers, ruining those for me too. Then he actually got on his knees and begged me to forgive him. I did. Now that I think about it, I don’t recall him saying sorry.

Not my greatest moment, but we live and learn until we don’t. You hear about women dying at the hands of their abuser. Still, until you’re one of those statistics, someone on the receiving end, you don’t realise the severity until you pass out and wake up throbbing in pain in a ball on the bathroom floor, bleeding, battered and bruised. It’s only then you see you were, ironically, the fucking lucky one because you woke up.

Tonight, when I finally managed to gather myself enough to pry my body up off the floor, I gingerly made my way back into the bedroom, my heart like thunder the entire time. I could hear the TV downstairs, the volume always so obnoxiously loud, blasting from the monstrosity the length of the living room wall that he insisted we get.

He always made the decisions; even when he asked for my input, it was a moot point.

I snuck down the stairs as quiet as I could be. I don’t think I ever took that much care making sure to avoid every step that creaked. Even though my entire body felt broken, I was jacked up on shock and adrenaline. He was snoring heavily, passed out in the armchair, an almost finished bottle of Jack sitting on the floor, and at that moment, I knew it was now or never. I had to leave.

But even after all of this—the revelations, the hindsight—I still feel responsible.

The doctor interrupts my thoughts and brings me back to the present.

“I’ll get these rushed through to the lab and let you know the results as soon as they come in.”

I try to nod, only my neck hurts too much. “Thank you.”

“Of course. In the meantime, I want you to rest. Your body has been through a traumatic experience. You have a sprained wrist, bruising to your larynx, and a laceration to your right temple. Hopefully, the butterfly stitches will suffice. Just be careful when washing your hair and face.”

He pulls out some pain medication, the pills rattling around in the white plastic bottle, and leaves them on the bedside table.

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