Page 1 of Journey to Love

Prologue 1

Two Years Ago

Anya

Work today was utterly exhausting, dealing with demanding customers and the discomfort of fending off unwelcome advances from drunken patrons. I reluctantly made my way to Paul's store, dreading his shift's end and hoping he wouldn't be in a foul mood. The last thing I need is another night like last night, especially with Paul. If he's in a good mood, maybe he'll decide to stay with me tonight, but that's a mixed blessing at best. As I watch him exit the store, I can't help but feel a twinge of unease. He's on the phone, and when I ask who he's calling, his dismissive eye roll only adds to my apprehension. With a muttered excuse about calling a cab, he tells me to wait outside. I can't help but wonder why he hasn't gotten his license yet. I begrudgingly obey, knowing full well the frigid weather outside. I can't wait for my car to be fixed after Marcus, Paul's friend, crashed it last week. They didn't ask; they just took it. As I stand there, I can't shake the feeling of dread that seems to hover around Paul, like a storm cloud waiting to burst.

Standing outside the mall, I finish my second cigarette just as the cab pulls up. I quickly text Paul to let him know the taxi has arrived. He emerges from the mall, his voice raised in anger as he argues with someone on the phone before abruptly hanging up. I sigh inwardly, knowing that his foul mood spells trouble. "Great, someone's managed to piss him off," I mutter to myself, rolling my eyes. Despite knowing better, I can't help but ask, "Who was that on the phone?" His gaze turns stern, and a chill runs down my spine as he growls, "Don't worry about it. Mind your business. I just had to remind someone of their place!" His eyes pierce into mine, conveying a clear message: I should also remember where I stand.

"Was it one of your soldiers again?" I ask, genuine concern etched on my face. Paul's reaction is immediate and explosive. "Anya, I told you to mind your goddamn business!" he shouts, his anger palpable. Feeling chastised, I bow my head and silently walk past him, murmuring, "I'm sorry, you're right. I shouldn't have asked." I make my way into the waiting taxi, trying to diffuse the tension. Paul joins me from the other side, his exasperation evident as he exhales heavily. "Yes, if you must know, it was one of my men bothering me with useless information," he begrudgingly admits. I nod quietly, opting to keep my thoughts to myself, not wanting to further aggravate his already volatile mood.

As Paul's hand rests on mine, squeezing gently, I force a smile, though inwardly I cringe. His stories from his time in the military have never quite added up, but I dare not challenge him for fear of his potential anger. "Anya, you have no idea what I went through in Afghanistan," he begins, his voice laden with emotion. "It's hard, and when I was a P.O.W., it was even harder." I offer a sympathetic nod, keeping my thoughts to myself as I sit quietly, waiting for him to continue weaving his narrative. "Like I've told you before, your picture is all that I focused on to get me through all the torture," he continues, his words a familiar refrain. "The letter I wrote to you that I couldn't send, in fear of them finding you, Anya. I can't lose you. I've been through way too much over there to not have you. I mean, damn, Anya, I shot an 8-year-old boy who had a bomb strapped to his chest because I needed to get back to you." His confession hangs heavily in the air, and I struggle to maintain composure. Managing a tight squeeze of his hand, I reply softly, "I know, Paul. You've told me this already, and I'm so sorry you had to go through that." His smile in response feels strained as he turns to gaze out the window, the landscape passing by unnoticed as we journey to wherever he's taking us.

As a military brat myself, I understand the unspoken code of silence surrounding deployments. But Paul's stories just don't add up. Still, I can't risk his anger anymore than it already simmers beneath the surface. So, I nod along, pretending to believe him, just as I've done for the past year.

Paul's effectively cut me off from everyone else. My parents can't stand me, and my friends are long gone. Even if I could reach out, Paul would accuse me of cheating. There's no point. He's made sure of that. There was a time when Paul was different. He was sweet, caring – even bought my mom flowers. But something changed, and I can't pinpoint when. He's not the same person anymore.

I want to leave, but the thought of what he might do stops me in my tracks. I'll have to hold on a little longer, just until I can figure out a plan. I just hope I'm strong enough to make it through.

As the cab rolls to a stop in front of the motel, a sickening sensation churns in the pit of my stomach. I recognize this place all too well—it's a motel I've passed countless times during my ten years living in New Jersey. Nestled near the beach, our area boasts numerous hotels and motels catering to tourists. Yet, of all the options available, Paul has chosen the one situated in the seediest part of town, infamous for its drug activity.

Just by glancing at it, you can tell this place hasn't seen an upgrade in over two decades. The brick facade is marred by peeling paint, trash litters the grounds, and it's hidden behind other buildings, easily overlooked. It's a place only locals know is still operational; to an outsider, it might appear abandoned.

My heart sinks as I realize the gravity of our situation. This isn't just a random motel—it's a symbol of the darkness that has crept into our lives, a physical manifestation of the turmoil we endure behind closed doors. And now, we're about to step into its shadow once again.

As Paul takes the envelope filled withmyhard-earned money,why he never uses his money, I have no idea.He disappears into the motel office, a sinking feeling settles in my chest. When he returns, paying the taxi driver before leading me toward one of the rooms, I can't help but voice my discomfort.

"Paul, why are we here?" I ask, my voice trembling with unease. "This place gives me the creeps. Why can't we go to your house instead?"

It's a futile plea, I know. This motel is just another in a long line of seedy establishments he's dragged me to over the past year. But still, I can't help but hope for a different outcome.

Paul's gaze hardens as he stares back at me. "You know exactly why we can't go to my house!" he snaps. "My aunt and grandmother don't want people coming over. Now quit your whining and let's go!" With a forceful tug, he pulls me out of the car and into the dimly lit room, shutting the door behind us with a resounding click.

Stepping into the room feels like diving into a nightmare I can't escape. The wallpaper hangs off the walls like it's trying to escape too. Stains cover the carpet in all sorts of gross colors, each one telling a story I don't want to hear. The bathroom reeks of pee and stuff I don't even want to think about. The bed sheets look like they've seen better days, but it's hard to tell with all the yellowish stains and wrinkles. And that pull-out couch near the door? It's practically falling apart, with stuffing poking out like it's trying to break free.

If someone brought a blacklight in here, I swear it'd light up like a neon sign, revealing all the nastiness lurking in the shadows. It's seriously disgusting, and I can feel my skin crawl just from looking around.

"Gross," I whisper to myself, my voice barely above a whimper. This place is a nightmare come to life, and I'm trapped right in the middle of it.

As soon as I shut the door, his hands are all over me, invading my space before I even have a chance to set my bag down. Exhaustion weighs heavy on my shoulders, and all I want is a moment of peace, a chance to unwind after a long day on my feet. But Paul has other plans, his touch igniting a fire of frustration inside me.

I try to pull away, to create some distance between us, but he refuses to relent. His hands roam freely, and I feel suffocated by his relentless advances. "Paul, no!" I protest, my voice barely a whisper against his persistence. "I'm exhausted."

But he doesn't listen. Paul never listens when it comes to this. With a forceful shove, he pushes me towards the bed, and before I can even comprehend what's happening, I find myself on my back, pinned down by his weight.

No. This isn't what I want. This isn't what I need. Panic sets in as I realize the gravity of the situation. We need to stop. He needs to stop. But I'm paralyzed, trapped beneath him, as the darkness of the room closes in around me.

The words erupt from my lips before I can stop them, fueled by a surge of courage mingled with fear. "Paul! NO! You need to stop! I don't want to do this!" I shout, the weight of exhaustion and frustration heavy in my voice. "I just want a normal night, preferably somewhere where I'm not on the verge of puking!"

His reaction is immediate, a furious glare cutting through the dimness of the room. "What the fuck did you just say!" he bellows, his rage palpable. But I refuse to back down, summoning every ounce of strength within me to stand my ground.

"I don't want to have sex tonight," I continue, my voice trembling but resolute. "Why is it that every time we're together, that's all you want to do? Why can't we just spend time together, maybe watch a movie or go out to eat?"

He ignores my words, pressing his lips against my neck and reaching for my hand, guiding it toward his pants. In that moment, something inside me snaps. With a surge of determination, I push him away and rise to my feet. "Paul, I said NO!" I declare, my voice shaking with a mixture of fear and newfound resolve.

His face inches from mine, his fury evident in every line of his expression. Without warning, his hand swings out, the force of the blow sending shockwaves through my body. The sting of pain blooms across my cheek, and for a moment, everything goes still. But even as tears threaten to spill from my eyes, I refuse to yield. "I won't let you do this to me anymore," I whisper, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm done being afraid." His laughter, cold and cruel, sends shivers down my spine, my insides cowering in dread. "Afraid?" he taunts, the word dripping with malice. "Bitch, you don't know afraid!" Each word is like a dagger to my already trembling heart.

I stand there, my facade of strength crumbling beneath the weight of his words, but I refuse to let him see my fear. His face contorts with rage, a dangerous shade of red, as he paces the room like a caged animal. My heart pounds in my chest, the sound deafening in the silence that hangs between us. Then, without warning, he turns his fury towards me. "Fuck this," he snarls, his voice low and menacing. "You're not telling me NO! I can do whatever I goddamn please!"

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