“Thanks,” I say, drying my hands.
I step into the exam room and find an elderly woman in her eighties with soft gray curls tucked under a wool hat and pearl earrings that catch the overhead light. She’s got a little Chihuahua sitting on the metal table, watching me with suspicious dark eyes.
“Is this Dolly?” I let the dog sniff my outstretched hand cautiously.
“Yes, dear, sorry we’re a bit behind. There was construction on every corner, and the taxi driver was grumbling the whole time. I don’t even know what they’re trying to fix anymore because the roads are all cracked anyway.”
I smile. “No worries. I’m Kelly.”
“Oh, I know, sweetie. Camilla told me about you.”
I give Dolly another gentle scratch behind the ear before starting the exam. I don’t like Chihuahuas much. They’re tiny, but they bite like little demons. One nearly took my finger off last year. Dolly seems calm enough, just watching me with those dark eyes.
“The chart said she’s ten with a heart murmur, been managing it with medication. Any changes in her activities lately?”
The woman hums. “She’s a little slower getting around, but she still bosses me around just fine.”
I check Dolly’s ears and eyes. Listen to her heartbeat with my stethoscope, then feel under her belly for any masses or tender spots. Her legs move fine when I check her joints. Her breathing sounds stable. For a ten-year-old Chihuahua with heart problems, she’s doing pretty damn well.
The visit goes quickly. I wave them off, then head back to the cramped office to stare at the mountain of paperwork waiting on my desk. I groan into the scattered papers.
Can this day please be over already?
I puton my helmet and push my bike down the alley beside the clinic. The rain’s light, more mist than downpour. The wind cuts straight through my jacket and hits my face like tiny needles.
I sigh and swing my leg over the seat and take off. Every muscle in my body aches. I just want to get home, curl up in bed, and forget this day ever existed.
I take the usual route, cutting through side streets to avoid the worst traffic. My brain won’t shut up. It keeps circling back to him, his face. I must’ve sat in the break room for twenty minutes staring into my coffee, completely checked out.
I spot my building in the distance and let out a breath of relief. It’s getting dark fast. I shift lanes slightly, staying off the sidewalk so I don’t accidentally plow through some poor dog walker. My legs and back hurt, and I just want to be home and safe.
A sound hits behind me, engine noise getting closer.
Then something slams into my back tire. The handlebars rip out of my hands. I hit face-first into the asphalt. My helmet slams sideways. My cheek scrapes across the rough street. Pain shoots through every part of my body. My breath locks up like my lungs forgot how to work.
I just groan and roll onto my back, trying to breathe. It feels like there’s a knife lodged in my chest. I don’t even know if I’m moving or if the street is spinning around me.
“What do you think, Mendez? You think we hit him hard enough?”
I know that voice. I’d recognize it even if I were dying. Don’t even have to guess who’s standing over me.
Two men in uniform stand above me with matching smirks.
Mendez shrugs like he’s considering the question seriously. “Nah, could’ve gone a little faster. Might’ve gotten more airtime that way.”
I want to cry. My whole body feels like it’s been torn apart and stapled together wrong. My wrists ache, my ribs feel crushed. I don’t know if it’s blood or rain or both. I won’t cry, not in front of him.
David. My ex.
Six months since I tried to file the restraining order after he snapped my arm like a goddamn twig. That was just the last time. There were so many other times before that, so many bruises I covered with long sleeves, so many excuses I made for why I couldn’t go out or why I was walking funny or why I jumped when people moved too fast around me.
I sat in the ER and lied through my teeth while the nurses asked me over and over again if it was just a fall or something else. Because what was I supposed to say?
That I’d been letting someone hurt me for two years? That I’d convinced myself it was love when he said he was sorry afterward? That I believed him when he said it was my fault for making him angry?
I thought filing the restraining order would make it stop. Instead, I learned exactly how powerless I really was.
The paperwork got lost, then misfiled, then lost again. Suddenly, nobody could find my statements. The photos of my injuries mysteriously disappeared from the system.
