There's a mirror above the sink.
I haven't looked in a mirror since before the attack.
Three days.
Three days of avoiding my own reflection.
Three days of knowing what I'd see but not being ready to face it.
I'm still not ready.
But I can't avoid it forever.
Slowly, I lift my head.
And there she is.
The woman in the mirror.
The woman I don't recognize.
My left eye is swollen nearly shut, the skin around it a grotesque rainbow of purple and black and sickly yellow.
My cheek is bruised too—a dark smear that extends from my cheekbone to my jaw.
My lip is split.
Scabbed over now, but still visible.
I look like I've been in a car accident.
Like I've been hit by a truck.
Like I've been beaten by a man twice my size while I lay helpless on the floor.
That last one is true.
Slowly, I unwrap the bandage on my arm.
The cut runs from my elbow nearly to my wrist.
Stitched closed now, but still angry and red.
It's going to scar.
I'm going to carry this mark forever.
A permanent reminder of the worst night of my life.
My eyes drop to my left hand.
To the bare finger where my ring should be.
The ring Gunnar gave me.
The ring that belonged to a woman who wore it for fifty years.
The ring that was supposed to be mine.
