“Okay.”
“Love you,” Vincent said, running his thumb across my lower lip.
“Love you too.”
Kissing me once more, he climbed out of bed, dressed, and headed off to work.
The elation lingered long after the front door clicked shut behind him. The morning’s affection replayed in my mind, lulling me into a sense of safety I had no right to claim but didnonetheless. It’d been the longest stretch in months without him turning on me. I thought we were finally returning to who we were in the beginning. All day, I rode that happiness; it carried me through my remote work hours and into the evening.
Long days at the firm drained Vincent, and though the office often catered dinner for late nights, I didn’t want to take the chance, not tonight, not with things so good, so I cooked.
I seared meat, stirred sauces, and garnished plates. I set the table with our finest plates and polished silverware and cloth napkins I’d learned how to fold into little hearts. Every detail was perfect, completed just as the door unlocked, signaling Vincent’s arrival.
“Hi, babe,” I called out as I made way to the door. “I wasn’t sure if the firm had provided dinner so I made...”
When I stepped into the foyer and saw him, the smile on my lips fell away, my voice evaporating. This was not the man who had kissed me slow and sweet that morning, not the one who had told me he loved me.
This man in front of me now only knew how to mark me with devastation, his touch violent, his mouth spouting cruelty. Pain and anger were the only declarations he would make now.
“You think this is what I want to come home to?” he spat. “You think a stupid fucking meal is what I need after laboring for you the whole day?”
The first punch landed so quickly I didn’t have time to defend against it, much less come up with a response that would defuse the situation. Still reeling, another blow hit my cheek. And another. And another. I soon lost count of the punches. The pressure of swelling entered my vision, pressing into my sinuses. Metallic tang filled my mouth.
He threw me to the floor, my head smacking against the hardwood with a sickening thud that had dots forming behind my eyelids. His shoe landed on my stomach as he begankicking me with unrelenting fury. Each strike came with shouted accusations and insults, things I’d done wrong or had failed to do, but the specifics became unclear under the roaring in my ears.
I lost any sense of where his blows were landing. In these moments, time ceased. Only fear, agony, and the endless wait for him to stop existed. Pain lit up every nerve in my body, each strike stealing breath, thought, and sound. I curled in on myself, arms wrapped tight around my head, legs covering my torso, protecting what I could. I didn’t fight back. I never fought back. I had learned long ago that that only fed the fire and prolonged the rage. It was better to endure.
I had let myself forget this reality. The good days had buried this truth beneath layers of hope. I’d let myself believe if I loved hard enough, gave selflessly enough, I might keep the monster from resurfacing.
However, peace never rooted itself here. It came borrowed, fleeting. I played the fool for thinking I could preserve it, and a greater fool for forgetting it never lingered.
The blows finally ceased. Vincent stepped back, his breaths ragged. For a long, suffocating moment, he stood over me. I didn’t dare meet his eyes and risk provoking him into another round. I remained huddled on the floor, until his feet left my view and the front door opened and slammed shut with a force that shook the walls.
I unfolded my body, every inch of me protesting. Excruciating pain followed every minute movement. Sucking in a shallow breath, I fought the urge to cough; if I did, the ache would double.
It took time to drag myself upright. The room swam and my balance teetered as I stood. Bracing myself against the wall, I willed my vision to focus.
Finally managing to make it to the bedroom, I picked up my phone and dialed the number that, although thrown away, I had memorized, praying to any diety or karmic power that still bothered to listen he would pick up.
“Hello, this is Luke Walker,” he answered after the third ring.
My lips parted to respond, but the words fumbled and broke before they exited my mouth, my vocal chords refusing to comply.
“Hello?” he repeated.
“Luke, this is Oliver, you... you gave me your card a few weeks ago, and... and...” My breath hitched, shattering into a wheeze I couldn’t contain.
“Oliver?” Was that relief I heard in his voice? My head had taken a heavier hit from the floor than I thought if I heard that. “I’m so glad you used my number. Are you safe?”
Huh, so not imagined... but unexpected. So unexpected it took a moment for the question to register. His first response hadn’t been scathing. Not a curt“What do you want?”or“Why now?”or any of the hundred ways he might have cast me aside for intruding. No impatience laced his tone, no irritation for disturbing him, only genuine, immediate concern. In a world that had taught me I was burdensome, forgettable, and a complication, I marveled at being on the receiving end of such care.
“I . . . yes . . . no . . . maybe. Vincent’s gone, and I don’t know when he’ll be back.”
“Okay. Do you need me to call the authorities?”
“No! Please no.”
“Alright, no authorities, that’s your call.”It was?“You’re in control.”I was?“We’ll take this at your pace.”We?“Can you get somewhere safe?”
