Pieces from the night flicker in my mind. My clothes being stripped off before I’m poured into a new outfit. The desultory comments from the department-store aide, over the smallness of my bosom and the largeness of my rear, all made while she flashed a needle to correct the situation.
Creighton McManus. A man I’ve never wanted to meet and never want to meet again.
Strange food. Forbidden conversation.
Tiny fragments from what should be a full night of memories.
Did I drink? It doesn’t feel like it. The pain’s different. The sickness deeper. My thoughts have never felt so thin, dissipating like smoke.
I need the bathroom. My slow slide off the bed doesn’t wake Lachlan and I take a few deep breaths in relief once I’m behind the safety of the ensuite door. There’s a low glow from the window but not enough for good visibility.
My skin crawls at the thought of turning on the light, waking the man sleeping in the adjoining room, but I do it anyway. My body feels weird. I want to examine it to see if it holds clues to what’s going on.
The first thing I see is the bruise on the side of my throat. Fingertip marks. With each new discoloured patch, my panic increases.
Do these bruises explain why I can’t remember? Did he choke me out until I was unconscious? The thought swamps me until I cling to the vanity unit to stay upright. Did he take advantage of me while I was asleep?
Because I’ve had sex. Or, more precisely, it feels like someone’s had sex with me.
My stomach flutters in a bad way. I put a quivering hand on my abdomen, my breathing becoming shallow as I notice a strange red mark on my belly and another few on the side of my left breast. My bladder reminds me of the reason I came in here in the first place and, when I sit, I see another of those red marks on my thigh.
This one is clearer.
This one is very evidently a bite mark. I can see the individual imprints of his teeth.
A sob catches in the back of my throat. I press my hand over my mouth, scared the sound will leak through.
I’m distraught. Wanting to know everything. Scared to find out anything.
I can’t remember.
Why can’t I remember?
A few tears spill and I catch myself. I can cry all I like at home. There, crying is free. Here it costs me time and time might cost my freedom.
I finish and close the lid to suppress the sound as I flush. The water in the sink sounds a thousand times louder than normal. When I wipe my hands on the towel, wipe my face, it makes noises I’ve never heard so clearly before.
My clothes are gone. The only thing I’m wearing is the suspender belt the lady at the department store picked out for me, along with the stockings. If I can’t find clothes, I can’t leave.There’s no way I can hitchhike home from this place that no driver for hire will venture near without clothes.
Wait.
With my hand on the doorknob, I pause, wondering where that knowledge about drivers not coming here came from. An echo nibbles at my mind, then disappears before I can reel it in.
It doesn’t matter. Clothes. Sensible shoes in case I have to walk. What else? I didn’t have a wallet, but I started the evening with a phone. A vague bell dings, suggesting someone took it off me.
In the foyer. Someone took it away in the foyer. It could still sit there, in a box, waiting to be claimed.
My eyes move to the towels. They’re large and fluffy, exactly the type of thing to wrap around yourself after a shower, tucking in the corners to hold it in place. Fine if you want to go from the shower to the wardrobe. I can’t imagine it being sufficient to walk for hours, at night, all the way home.
There’s nothing I can do in here. I need to go back into the bedroom. I turn off the light and rest my hand on the doorknob not yet turning it. I want to stay in here where I’m alone and it’s safe. A room without an occupant who might wake up and bite me again.
Do whatever else he did to me again.
A breath hitches in my chest and I lean my forehead against the smooth wood of the door. The surface is cool, familiar, calming.
There’s no lock on the door. You’re no safer here than in the bedroom.
True. I know it’s true. It just doesn’t feel that way.
