I pull my hand back, wondering how bad it’d be if I was vindictive and ballsy enough to put a few drops in one of his drinks. To pay him back for turning my life upside down. Frowning and chastising myself at the intrusive thought, I put the vial back in the cabinet and then self-consciously squint at myself in the mirror.
For once I thank God for my good looks. Maybe it would help to distract the outside world from the bruises I'm sporting, or anything else out of order. I don't want any of my clients suspecting that anything's amiss. I pride myself on ruling over my little practice of three years with an iron fist. Wrapped in velvet, of course.
I take time to clean the vanity off before exiting the room to the bedroom I share with Brandon. Eying the perfectly made bed, I bite my lip as my mind becomes awash with thoughts, unable to be still. I’m in fight or flight mode as I attempt to think through every possible outcome of this relationship.
Sighing, I deflate, knowing good and well I'm going to have to financially figure out how to maintain my practice while going through an unexpected abusive relationship with no savings at twenty-eight years old. I'm desperate and broke, initially having sunk all my hard-earned savings into starting up my therapy practice, finding a nice house in a middle-class neighborhood to rent out for my office space, and then building it up. There hasn't been any wiggle room or to see a real profit in the last three years.
Not with all the extra financial strain I've been under.
Thankfully, I'm rather good at what I do and have clients galore, but I'm still barely breaking even every month. I have just enough saved to get an apartment, but nothing else, and the thought of being left destitute terrifies me. I'djustspent money on our living room furniture, and shortly after had found myself being the sole provider of the household. Paying the majority of the bills and the mortgage has left me with few dollars at the end of the month.
I furrow my brow, thinking hard, contemplating my next steps.
In his current mental state, I'd doubt that Brandon will let me take the furniture or other items because he's not being reasonable right now. I'm going to have to wait until he's at work one day to try and at least get the bed. That's all I'll take. Something to lay on that way I won't have to crawl off the floor with a baby bump protruding.
"We got this." I smile, putting my hands to my stomach and rubbing gently.
Yeah…I don't want the house. No way I'd want to walk through the various rooms and see countless areas where he’d beat me until I was a sobbing mess on the floor.
Turning to walk out of the bedroom, I journey slowly down the hallway before pausing. My eyebrows furrow when I spot theslight blood smear on the wall that I hadn’t been able to scrub out. I briefly close my eyes against the memory. Seven weeks ago Brandon grabbed me by the hair and slammed my head into the wall, making me smear blood on the light blue paint.
I hate the memory; it makes me feel sick. My face flushes as my eyes tear up from thinking about all the sacrifices I've made. I’d paid three grand to have the entire house painted not even two years ago, and there are at least six walls I know of stained with my blood.
Wanting to move on, I keep going, stopping at the picture of mom and dad.
The feeling becomes even more intense at the sight of my father.
I wrap my arms around my torso, staring into his gray eyes and wishing I could call him and tell him what's going on. My dad is a stoic man who always hounded me for not wanting to be a lawyer. Our relationship has been strained for years since I moved away to live my own dreams. He never got over the disappointment.
My eyes move over to momma, roaming over her dark skin and beautifully locked hair. I get my short height from her. She tries to keep the peace between us, but even she isn't savvy enough to mend our bond. It's so broken at this point I don't see how it'll ever be repaired. I assess the picture quietly; they're standing locked in an embrace in front of the Eiffel tower on one of their many trips out of the country.
Oh how I wish I could tell you what's going on.
My breath hitches as I put a shaky hand to my cheek, wiping my tears away. I linger in the hallway. My eyes move beyond my parents, landing on the picture of me and Brandon when we were on vacation in California visiting them. They’d disapproved of Brandon because he wasn’t a lawyer like they wanted for me. So, we ended the visit early and rented a small home near Venicebeach where we spent the rest of the time surfing until we had to fly back home to Connecticut.
No, there's no way I can tell them. All they would do is sayI told you so.
My fingers dig in my arms as I regard the picture I used to love. Lingering on happy and carefree smiles as we held each other in front of the sunset. My hair was curly after swimming, and that night as we were packing to leave, he’d asked me how long before I could make my hair straight again; it was the first time he'd ever had a complaint like that.
Hurt, I'd promptly locked myself in the bathroom and spent half the night self-consciously straightening my hair. That night messed with my confidence so deeply that I've never gone swimming with him again.
Blinking tears away, I reach up and take the frame off the wall and carry it to the sink. I place it into the empty basin, grab a mug, and smash it into the thin glass frame repeatedly until it cracks into a hundred pieces just like my heart.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid,I yell inside my head, hating that I ignored all the red flags.
Breathing hard, I pull out the picture and rip it into tiny pieces until it's as irreparable as we are; then, I toss the mess into the trash bin before calmly walking back to the bedroom. I smooth my hand over my black dress, walk over to the long-sleeved cardigan tossed across the end of the bed and pull it on. I don't mind that it's eighty-six degrees outside in mid-July. People instinctively know therapists and social workers have a uniform: cardigans.
Though it looks odd in this heat, they’d never question me, and that stereotype sure comes in handy today. I need the fabric to conceal the bruises on my arms that I can’t let my clients see, as well as a nasty scratch on my shoulder that Brandon put there last week when he snatched me by my hair.
Heading to the front of the house, I grab my tumbler of ice water off the kitchen island, haul my tote bag over my shoulder, and make my way to my car. I spend the half-hour drive to the office listening to my favorite guided meditation and park in my spot a cool forty-five minutes before the first session of the day.
Placing my forehead to the steering wheel, I take a second to pray for strength. God, I really don't want to do this. I need to find a co-therapist who can help me out when I need to take a break. Exiting the car, I promise to make that a priority as soon as I get a handle on my life. And right now judging by the state of the grass in the yard alone, I better get a handle quick. Feeling minutely better, I dig out my keys to let myself into the modest office space and inhale the scent of the only place that's felt like home to me.
The space instantly lifts my spirits, but I feel like such a fraud preparing for a day of pretending everything is okay when the sad reality of my life on the inside is…I am dying.
Chapter two
Empty
