Darkness still cloakedthe world when I opened my eyes again.
We were moving through an eerie shade of light. Not quite dawn, but not fully night.
Brando held me in his arms, taking his time walking through the woods. Even through the haze of fatigue and dimness, I knew where we were headed. Towards a cabin tucked further into the woods than the rest. My grandfather had used it when he came to stay simply because he wanted to be close to the cabin he had immortalized for my grandmother after she had passed on.
I curled deeper into my husband’s embrace, really feeling the chill on my skin, almost feverish from the contrast between Brando’s warmth and the biting cold in the air. My teeth chattered, and the goosebumps on my skin were almost painful. My nipples could’ve cut glass. I was the whitest thing around for miles, like a ghost in the woods.
“Almost there, baby,” he said, his voice rough—with unshed emotions? Or was it the thrill of the night?
He was hiding something from me.
“All right,” I croaked, looking up at him. His hair was wilder than before, the look in his eyes matching. Even the muscles in his jaw twitched with—agitation?
It wasn’t until after he found the spare key in the faux wooden log outside of the door, let us in and then set me down in the bathroom while he ran a hot shower, that I realized three things.
One, tears were still gliding down my cheeks as though a moment hadn’t passed since I had fallen asleep.
Two, my fists were clenched, nails piercing skin.
Three, Brando held the torn nightgown in his clenched fist, as though he couldn’t bear to part with it.
We took our time, taking turns to wash each other’s hair and scrub each other’s backs. Dirt ran down the drain in swirling brown ribbons, washing away all that we had collected from the woods. Small bits of ivy and moss and pine clung to the sides of the old tub.
Neither one of us relaxed, even through the hot shower.
Warm water usually soothed my bones, but the ache had penetrated my deepest cells and couldn’t be touched.
I had asked for rough; he had given.
Behind me, I could feel the tension radiating from him.
Was it from me? I suspected he still felt the fear that had clung to me earlier. It refused to quit, and I couldn’t seem to let it go.
Stepping out first, he toweled off while I took an extra moment to stand under the hot spray, letting the water blast against my skin. But the hot water here never lasted long, and before I would’ve liked, it ran out.
Brando refused to let me step out of the tub alone. He picked me up, like a child, and then put me down, covering me with the thick towel.
My hand went over his to stop him from drying me. “Brando.” I tried to dislodge my heart from my throat, but it wasn’t moving. “Tell me.” My voice came out barely above a whisper.
“Tellme,” he shot back, though his tone had matched mine, which made it even more dangerous. His hands clutched the towel to keep it together.
A gasp came from my mouth when he spun me around and then flung the soft fabric off, forcing me to look at myself in the mirror.
My first instinct was turn away, to shield myself from the reflection staring back at me. But I refused. It would only cause him to become even more anxious.
Staring myself in the eye, I looked myself over in a dispassionate way, almost clinical, an out-of-body experience. As though it was someone else staring at the woman in the mirror.
Hair soaked and plastered to the skull, the longer pieces dripping water as fast as sieve. Pale skin almost glowing from the morning sun filtering in through the beveled glass window. Patches of bruises had already started to blossom, though, finger marks here, a hand mark there. Other patches, the color of deep crimson roses, had added to the medley, where he had bit and sucked my skin.
A trembling hand came up to touch the swollen bottom lip. The crusted blood had melted with the steam in the bathroom, leaving a slight discoloration. A purple-colored stripe.
What was on the outside had nothing on what ached on the inside. A steady pulse beat hot between my legs, and my thighs quivered from it.
I had no idea how I found the energy to stand, much less meet his eyes, but I did. The strength had to come from pure determination alone. Having children gave me a roar that I’d never had before.
“Should I point out your back?” I asked softly. “Or your matching lip?”
Time seemed to slow-crawl between us, and I had no idea how long we stood there, glaring at each other. No, that was a lie. He glared. I gave him an aloof stare, one that reflected the one I had given myself.
