Then sound rushes back in, a high ring in my ears, the sting where his palm landed, heat blooming across my skin. I touch my head, instinctively looking for blood, relieved not to find one.
“Shit,” I hear him say, his voice carving like hot metal into my pulsing head. “Shit. I didn’t mean that.”
I straighten slowly, hand flying to my cheek more from reflex than pain. It does hurt—hot and bright—but it’s the shock that makes my eyes water.
In seven years, he never raised a hand, a clear, cold thought says in the back of my skull.Only now, when he’s losing you, does he need to hit you to make you small again.
He reachesout, hand hovering. “I didn’t mean—Zlata, come on. I’m drunk. You know I’d never really hurt you. Don’t overreact, please.”
I stand up, hold onto the counter firmly, not to lose balance again. I take a step back, out of his reach. My heart is beating so hard I can feel it in my teeth. But my voice, when it comes, is steadier than I expected.
“I’m not overreacting,” I say firmly. “This changes nothing. I’m still asking you to leave, before I call the police.”
He blinks, thrown by the lack of tears, the lack of collapse.
“You need to leave,” I say again. “Right now.”
“Zlata—”
I would have reached for my phone had it not been lying on the couch. I’d run for it, but some primal instinct tells me that if I run, if I move too fast, the predator is going to chase me. I just want him gone.
I don’t look into his eyes, no provocation, just get him out.
“Please, Peter, leave. We can talk later, but not now,” I say, desperation creeping into my voice. “I need to think.”
His body relaxes; I can sense it without actually seeing it.
“Take all the time you need, Bunny,” he says, his voice practically purring, in his drunken state, mistaking my strategy for surrender.
“Good night, Peter,” I look up, let the tears well in my eyes, and bile rises in my throat, as I see a smile spreading over his face.
“Good night, Bunny,” he says, raises his hand, but lets it fall when I flinch. He nods to himself, turns around, and leaves the flat.
The door doesn’t slam behind him; he’s closing it slowly, like he doesn’t want to startle me. Once the door closes, I hurry to lock it and secure the chain, leaning my back against it.
I slide down to the floor, tears flood my burning cheeks, my head hurts, and for a moment, I expect the sobbing to come. But it doesn’t—instead my brain whirrs.
What if I’m actually hurt? Should I see the doctor? And what do I do to get this asshole out of my life finally?
I stand up, walk to the fridge, open the freezer, and pick up a package of frozen peas. Walk to the couch, get my phone, and make the call I should have made a long time ago. Plus, send a message to Anna. She’s at some party, and I hate to disturb, but it’s time I learned to ask for help when I need it. And tonight, I’m going to need all the support I can get.
***
PETER:You bitch.
PETER: A restraining order? Against me? How dare you!
ZLATA: Hi, Peter.
ZLATA: Did the second letter arrive already?
The second letter is from my lawyer, stating that I’m willing to drop the charges against him if he keeps to the rules and refrains from contacting me again beyond what's necessary to return the money he owes me. The precise amount.
PETER: I never did anything to you. You’ve got no proof to the contrary.
ZLATA: My lawyer says I should not talk to you.
ZLATA: But she also says you’re free to ask for the complete police file. You’ll find it all in there.
