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Stepping inside the room, I closed and locked the door behind me. A stupid gesture. Locks had never stopped Sebastian any other time.
As if it were a bomb, I approached the bag with slow, even steps. A splashed graffiti of rust stains covered the canvas. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that it was Mark’s blood.
The man had set me up to be killed by my father, but that didn’t mean I wanted his blood on my hands. Just like I hadn’t wanted the blood of that other man Sebastian killed on my conscience.
How many more lives would be sacrificed on the altar of this fucked-up vengeance relationship I was trapped in?
Falling back, I turned and raced into the en suite bathroom. The hard marble tile bruised my knees as I fell to them in front of the toilet. I slammed the seat up and gripped the porcelain edge as I dry heaved. Bile burned the back of my throat, but I couldn’t vomit.
With a defeated sob, I crawled over to the shower stall. After curling into a ball with my clothes still on, I reached up and turned the brass knob all the way until the shower nozzle hissed and steam rose to fill the chamber.
I needed the water to burn.
My cheek stung as the water hit the fresh cut from the engagement ring.
The sweater I wore hung heavily on my shoulders as the water soaked it. With my hair plastered against my jaw, I pressed my knees against my chest and stared at the water as it swirled down the drain.
Ignoring the metaphor for my life, I finally stood, swept the sodden sweater over my head, and pulled off my yoga pants. I reached for the loofah and soap, coating the natural sponge in the pearlescent liquid, and scrubbed it down my arms and legs, resisting the urge to scrub between my legs.
No matter how much I scrubbed…
No matter how red and scalded my skin became…
I couldn’t wash away his touch.
Or the bloody violence of his world.
He’d scarred me.
But that wasn’t even the worst thing he’d done.
He’d made me love him.
Not a cute, romantic love.
Not the kind of love where I’d pretend to be a better cook than I was to impress him, or get excited when he posted an Instagram picture of us together, or allow myself to imagine us adopting a dog after moving in together.
No, this was the kind of love where my stomach twisted every time my phone pinged, both excited and fearful that it would be a text from him. Where I became obsessed with every insignificant decision, like the outfit I was wearing or the shade of my lipstick, as I wondered if he would approve.
It was the kind of love where I read into every small word or gesture, trying to decipher the hidden meaning. The kind where I never really knew where I stood. Whether he saw me as a true partner and lover or just a possession, or worse, a means to an end.
The toxic kind.
I stared at the ring on my finger. In a fit of pique, I squeezed into the corner of the shower and shifted the shower nozzle to the other extreme.
Frigid water splashed my legs as I tried to avoid the worst of the stream, even as I stretched my arm out under it. My hand turned from pink to pale with stark blue veins. When my teeth began to chatter, I pulled my arm back and snatched the bottle of liquid soap. I squeezed until I covered my whole hand.
After wrapping my fist around my ring finger, I ruthlessly twisted.
The diamond ring popped off.
It clattered against the marble tile and bounced, getting caught in the water stream.
With a cry, I fell to my knees and captured it before it neared the drain.
The ring was far too big to fall between the slots, but logic had no part in my world anymore.
My body shivered as icy water pounded against my back. Locking my jaw to stop my teeth from chattering, I fell back onto my ass with my knees to the side as I slowly slipped the ring back onto my finger.
