I shake the thought from the forefront of my head. That’s not going to help her, and right now, the only thing that I can do is focus on making her more comfortable. Feel more secure. I stiffen, trying to imagine what I would want if my skin were still prickling from the touch of strangers.I’d want everyone to stay the hell away from me. I’d want a cold shower to scrub each cell of my skin until I could no longer feel the touches left behind.
I back away to the other side of the room to give her space, watching as she allows Doc to stitch her forehead shut and clean the wound, finally placing a bandage against her head to cover the injury. I’ve never felt so powerless. Never been solost.
“I want to leave now.” She suddenly rasps out in that low, dejected voice. It breaks some irreparable part of me.
“Cass—”
“Please,” she begs, her grey eyes filling once more with tears I can’t stand. I want her to stay. I need to take care of her. But the tears keep falling, cutting up my organs like a paring knife until even my throat feels full and thick and shaky.
If you were her, you’d want to leave, too. You’d never come back.The thought climbs through the cavity of sorrow, a parasite festering in my skin.
“Okay. I’ll have a car for you in a few minutes.”
She says nothing back. I can feel my heart breaking in my chest. This is the girl who saved my life. Who gave me a reason to keep on fighting when I was at my lowest point. She’s the first thing I think about in the morning, and the last thought I have before shutting my eyes.
She might…she might’ve been everything. And I’ve ruined it like I ruin everything else.
When I get the notification that the car has arrived, I stand up from the couch and let her know. The phone shakes in my loose grasp.
“I need my shoes.” She finally says.
The walk to the bedroom is more painful than any bullet wound I’ve taken. I scoop up her heels from beside the bed, where I had slipped them off her feet the night before. I don’t think I’ll ever have the chance to feel that happy ever again.
She takes the shoes from my hand and inhales a meaningful breath before walking toward the elevator and pressing the button. I’ve never wished I had a stairwell as much as I do right now, wanting to spare her from the horror of entrapment once again. As soon as the doors open, my brave girl struts in, doing her best to hide the panic on her face. When I move to follow, she bares her teeth in an instinctual warning, stopping me in my fucking tracks.
And then the doors shut.
Cassandra
Heat blasts through the vents, circulating between the car seats and underneath the floorboards, but my cold runs bone-deep, chilled beneath the surface. An ache pulses against the skin of my forehead where Mikhail’s doctor stitched me up. I feel like I’ve been run through by a train. The press of hot air merely bounces off my skin, teasing the outer layer. I’m still cold.
Glistening white hues of snow-powdered trees fly by the window one by one as we glide down the familiar road upstate.
I don’t know who’s driving. I don’t care.
All I want to do is crawl under a burning stream of water and cry whatever tears are left, then layer every fucking blanket I own onto my bed before curling up under the covers and passing out.
Some buried, infantile part of my mind implores me to call Mom to come pick me up and hold me, to take me away to some new place where we can both start fresh and make better choices about the men we let into our lives. We could start a mother-daughter bakery and spend each day laughing, throwing flour in each other’s hair, sharing all our secretsas we had in the past, and shouting our favorite songs against the wind beating past our rolled-down windows.
The jolt of the vehicle turning onto my street cracks my fantasy, and it shatters before me like the endless fall of snow that pelts the windshield. That version of my mother is comatose, battered and bruised from a hard life and a controlling man. There’s no rescue coming. For either of us.
I stare at the purple fingermarks against my own pale arm, the bruise glinting in the glow of the passing streetlights.
In silence, the driver swings into my driveway and comes to an ominous stop.
I guess that’s my cue.
Around my shoulders still lies the thick blanket Mikhail wrapped over my arms, and I use one hand to clutch it tighter to my chest as I reach for the handle on my right.
The door swings open slowly, resisted by the several feet of fresh, crisp snow layered on the street. Reluctantly, I slip my open toes—bared by my poorly chosen stiletto heels—into the drift, ice crunching down as I rise to my feet. Cold seeps into the appendages.
Step by soggy step, I trek toward the house.
Early morning rays of light paint the stormy sky in blue and purple streaks, and little flakes stick to the strands of my hair, melting down into my scalp. Numbly, I rifle through my purse for the keys and unlock the door.
Wet footprints trail behind my steps to the bathroom door, articles of clothing flying down in my wake. With the faucet cranked all the way to the left, I step under the burning stream and allow my hair to flatten in wet strands around my face, the last remnants of my makeup from the night before pouring down the drain.
When I finally crawl under the covers of my bed, my skin is raw, hair stuck to my face, and the morning sun creeps high through the cracks between my drawn curtains.
