Page 53 of For the Love of Layla

“Wait down by the stream

How sweet it will seem

Once more, just to dream

In the moonlight

My honey, I know,

With the dawn, you will be gone.

But tonight you belong to me.”

I scream again, this time my body racked with anger instead of fear. I punch at the dashboard. Forcing my foot up from the floorboard to kick at the car. My shoe drops off the heel caught on the steering wheel as I kick at the music. It makes no sense, but it feels good, so I keep on abusing my car and screaming like a fucking maniac until red and blue lights fill the cab. More tears fall to my flushed cheeks when I look up, Ryan and a group of my coworkers standing near the elevator, concerned looks on their faces.

Fucking excellent.

Ryan eyes me sympathetically as the police cautiously approach my car, as if I’m the dangerous one. Like I’m the fucking one people need to be protected from. I lift my bloodied hands as I step out of my car, the cold air feeling more like a gift than a burden against my sweaty face. In a normal situation, I’m sure I would’ve had some reaction to seeing Officer Daniels step from his car, his hand placed around the butt of his holstered gun, but I don’t.

I rub my sleep-filled eyes, wincing at the soreness in my soon to be bruised hands. Rolling over on the couch to stare at Saw III title menu’s animation looping. Adjusting so I’m propped up on the throw pillows, my eyes shoot wide like saucers when something gushes between my legs.

Yeah, that gush.

I rush into the bathroom only to confirm that either I’m about to bleed to death or I did, in fact, just start my period. Which is interesting considering I haven’t had one in two years. Aside from the obvious prevention of pregnancy, that’s been my favorite thing about having an IUD. Much to my surprise, it doesn’t take them long to find me an appointment after I call my obstetrician. Part of me wants to ignore it, I really want to ignore it, but with my recent activities now would be the absolute worst time to end up pregnant. Not that my stalker and I have actually had sex-

Not sex, sexual assault, Layla.

I shake my head to myself, allowing my thoughts to run away from me. Why hasn’t he just…done it yet? I’m confused, bothered even. Although I’m far from understanding why not being raped would upset me.

Probably because you’re incredibly fucked up and are getting attached to a literal psychopath.

I lay my head back against the cold hard lounger in the dimly lit room, avoiding eye contact from the ultrasound technician as he slathers my bruised stomach in that God awful gel. Not making eye contact with him or my doctor leaves me staring at the wall of blob art babies decorating the room. My heart hammers in my chest, still reeling from the first check they did. They keep giving each other apprehensive glances, ready to bolt if I flip my lid. It feels like a kick to my gut.

What’s another two people that think I’m fucking crazy?

Usually being set up pussy bare underneath hospital grade lighting brings with it a certain amount of discomfort, embarrassment even. Not this time, I felt nothing as he examined me. Perhaps the repeated violations by my tormentor have made me numb to these things. I was relatively comfortable laying there, momentarily safe fromhim.Until my doctor asked me a question that made the blood in my veins run cold.

Ma’am, did you remove your IUD?

I knew they hadn’t believed me when I said no. So here we are, triple checking what we all already know, because I downright refused to leave until they did.

“Miss. Burke, again, there is no IUD. If you’d like-”

I cut off the doctor as I shoot up from the table, jerking my oversized sweatshirt down over my gel covered stomach as an unease I’ve never felt before hits me in droves. I ignore their stares and attempts to stop me as I dart into the neighboring room, luckily an unoccupied bathroom considering I didn’t even fucking check. I barely make it to the toilet before I release the contents of the pitiful lunch I made for myself. Where the sound of sobs should be mixed with the sound of the flushing toilet, there are none.

Not a single tear, only red hot anger.

I head over to the sink flipping the water on all the way, making it splash from the basin. Coating my hands in tiny droplets as I clench the counter tightly. It’s loud in the otherwise silent office, but nowhere near loud enough to drown out the pounding in my ears. I stare at myself in the mirror, my wild curls jerked up in a messy bun high on my head. My nail polish chipped and frayed. I don’t recognize the woman there, the woman that allowed herself to be victimized time and time again.

All her life, actually.

The woman that aided in her attackers escape because her fucking daddy didn’t hug her enough. Out of all the violations, this one stings the most I think, taking away my choice. I splash the cool water on my flushed skin, staring at the mess I’ve made before even the sound of the water pounding against the basin becomes too much.

It’s all become too much.

When I storm from the office, I have one singular goal in mind, make him feel just a fraction of what I have. Just a fucking sliver of the torment and absolute bullshit he’s forced me to endure. I’m done, done being his victim. Done with the lies, the games, the small fraction of the picture he’s letting me see.

He’s mine as much as I’m his. He’s said it over and over again. So how far is he willing to go to keep me? How far can I push him?

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