Page 72 of Delivered to the Devil

The relief when he showed up at the kitchen door last night was unlike any other.

I want to crawl into his lap, rest my head against his chest, and listen to his heartbeat like I’ve done so many nights when sleep eluded me. Let his warmth soothe the trembling in my body.

I’m about to do it, but the moment I try to push up, pain flares like a spark in a puddle of gasoline. Once again, I spend forever trying to hold myself together, pressing my head into the pillow as I whimper and tensing my entire face as I try not to tense my body.

I end up just lying there, watching him through wet eyes, the aching need to feel him almost as painful as my burning wounds. But despite the distance, just watching him and sensing his powerful presence is a relief. And finally, I fall asleep again.

***

When I wake up, the chair is empty. I lie there for a while, listening for sounds in the apartment, hoping he’s still here. But all I hear is the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional noise from the street that slips past the soundproof windows.

Glancing at the teddy bear with the sparkling eyes, I badly want to reach for it and hug it close. But as with Janos, I end up just lying there, watching it as I dream of touching it—and the man who gave it to me.

Time ticks away on the clock next to the bed. On and on it goes while I lie frozen in place.

When the long hand has made a full rotation, I slowly push off the covers, and with a lot of wincing and whimpering, I manage to sit up in bed. Tears are leaking from my eyes, my legs trembling beneath me, when I finally stand on the floor. I have to support myself on walls and door frames as I painstakingly make my way across the hall to relieve myself.

Once I’m back on my feet, I press my hands into the counter surface and study my reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back at me has deep lines under her eyes, her hair is a messy tangle, and her eyes are red and swollen.

But that’s not the worst part.

What is even more unsettling are the bandages covering her body. Large patches of gauze create a horrible pattern across my stomach, chest, and ribs. A mosaic of white gauze, pale skin, and red spots. The sight is nauseating, and when I turn to find the same sight on my back, bile rises at the back of my throat.

I can’t stand it. I’m a broken thing patched together.

Suddenly, the bandages seem to be tightening, constricting my chest and itching my skin. I can’t breathe. I need to get them off. Throwing my hands up, I scratch at the edges, ripping thepatches off with feverish panic. I whimper and curse, and tears pool in my eyes as I pull at a bandage that sticks to a wound. But I don’t let it stop me. I keep going until exhaustion sweeps in as a tidal wave, knocking every last ounce of strength out of me.

I collapse against the counter and sink to the floor. There I lie for what seems like forever, quiet tears leaking from my eyes as I try not to let the panic fester in fitful bouts of sobs.

When I finally get off the floor, I cry out at the sight that meets me in the mirror. My body is one big, hideous collage of torn white patches and red stripes crisscrossing over my milky skin. Some cuts are thick and angry, while others are narrow and pale. Small drops of blood appear here and there, and in some places, it runs down my skin in small red stripes.

A hard sob racks my body, and I fall to the floor, giving in to hollow despair. The pain grows tenfold as grief tears through my body. I twist and turn on the bath mat, trying to find relief from the constant throbbing and burning, but nothing helps. I’m trapped in the hell of pain and despair. My screams become a nauseating cacophony as they bounce off the tiled walls, mixing with my sobs and whimpers.

At some point, I vaguely notice the sound of the front door, and then pounding steps blend into the mix of obtrusive sounds as someone comes running. The door flies open, and a jeans and leather jacket clad Janos freezes in the doorway, staring at me with the same horrified expression as when he found me on the kitchen floor with a bloody streak on my arm yesterday.

I feel so ugly and miserable that I can’t stand him looking at me. “Please go,” I manage through heaving sobs as I bury my face in my hands. “Just go.”

Breaking out of the initial shock, Janos rushes to my side and tries to push his arms under me gently. But the slightest touch aggravates the burn, and I lash out at him until he withdraws. “I have to get you back to bed,” he says.

I shake my head as I continue writhing on the mat.

For a moment, he’s quiet, and when my gaze flits to him, he looks utterly perplexed. But my mind has no space left to deal with it. All I can do is try my best to get air into my constricted lungs.

“Lie still!” he demands with a force that shoves me out of my self-pity. He presses his hands to my upper arm and hip to underline his words.

Suddenly, I’m still. I stare up at him, the hectic breaths swooshing past my lips the only sound in the room.

“Breathe,” he says in a deep, calm voice that resonates with a steadiness that seeps straight into me and soothes my frazzled soul.

I heave a staggered breath, the motion sending stabs of pins and needles through my skin. I’m about to drop straight back into the pit of despair, but Janos’s willful words refuse to let me go there.

“No! Stay here.” Grabbing my jaw, he locks my eyes to his furious ones, demanding that I stay with him. “I’ve got you,” he says with an urgency I have never heard in him before. “I’m here.”

I nod carefully, pushing air in and out through rounded lips as I try not to move my chest too much.

“Stay with me, Rebecca,” he says softly as he swipes his thumb across my cheek. “I’m here.”

Once I’m breathing somewhat normally, Janos releases my jaw and once again moves to push his hands under me. “I’m sorry, but I need to get you to bed,” he says when I whimper again. “Hold on to me and focus on my body. I’ve got you.”

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