Burdened
Multi-Chapter Fic
Warnings: Some reference to violence and violence related injuries.
Prologue
Music blared through the small speakers, the resulting sound tinny and muffled. It pained even the untrained eardrum. The eighties rock bands were classic, though their tempo was frighteningly motivating to a thundering temper.
The thump to her cheekbone resonated, head pulsing to the beat of a bass drum. The coffee table prodded at her ribs, cartilage tearing on impact and her elbow shadowing the vase until it pierced the glass and found the cold tiles. Shards dug into skin and tissue, tiny pieces of violence that tore through her resilience, one by one.
Crimson tears spluttered the white flooring from various orifices; blood trails. A body loomed over her, fists clenched in an undeniable rage, face flushed.
She froze, waiting.
It was always the unknown quantity within the fight or flight survival instinct. The one attribute that no one wants to have intrinsic to his or her reticular system. Yet, it's more common than not and established over years of biological development and emotional conditioning. The threats, whether real or imagined, start imprinting the subconscious responses from birth.
As a child, she had learned the value of slipping quietly into the background. It kept her out of trouble, out of the line of fire. Her father would raise his voice; bellow until he drew neighbours to their windows. And her brother, he would square his shoulders and jut his chin, even well before testosterone built him a presence. But she would wait, eyes wide and hands motionless until she could stand in a corner or crouch beside a chair.
Her mother would always find her cowering and lift her securely into her arms. Protect her. She learned that immobilising herself brought affection and shelter, an external armour amongst the loose fire.
She was an adult now. And her mother was neither present nor capable of guarding anyone or anything, other than her own grieving heart. It had fractured on sight of her son's coffin. No mother should ever have to bury a child.
Lacking in saviour and bereft of an alternative instinctual self-protection tool, she weathered the storm. Like she always did. Though it was worse; the worst it had ever been. She feared for her life, that this time, she was out of chances. And the person she felt such conflictual love for, was not going to stop until her body lay broken and lifeless.
A rapping on their door interrupted them both; broke the vehement monotony that had befell them. A neighbour screamed at them to turn the music down. The door trembled as he frustratingly slammed his fists three times against the wood. They watched the door, silently, as if expecting it to swing open and their secrets exposed.
So many months, or was it years? The inside of their home an enigma, their relationship a façade of pretty flowers, plastic water lilies planted in toxic ponds. The interruption was enough to trigger a change, remorse of sorts.
The music faded into nothing; Billy Joel didn't start the fire.
And then there were tears and a tender touch, though the blood on the woman's hands was further than she had ever been before. Silence tore through her mind and her conscience and she left with her handbag and declarations of regret. She needed a drink, yet another. She wouldn't be long.
Left behind and shattered, damaged beyond her wounds. She waited, a minute and then two. She crawled across glass, knees groaning to match her arm. Blond hair fell in front of her shoulders and strands ran down her cheeks to the peak of her breasts, it too was stained red.
She was unsteady on her feet, trembling with each uncertain step. A small Berghaus backpack sat in a box of medical textbooks and underneath winter sweaters and half read novels. She withdrew it gingerly, shakily breathing as she unzipped the main compartment. She didn't need much, just the necessities. A few pairs of underwear and a change of clothes, a loose long-sleeved top and a pair of slacks. A spare pair of jeans still lay on the bed, so she folded them hurriedly and pushed them inside the bag. The ones she was wearing were torn across the thigh.
Toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant and her hairbrush; a packet of tampons. She took two black hair ties off the vanity and slipped them around her right wrist, the arm that hurt to bend. She hesitated for a moment, thinking and processing her next move. She refused to think about the options, about the bigger picture. Just the immediate. Blood dripped down her arm and to the basin; she didn't notice.
Her handbag was by the door, it held her phone, purse, car keys and address book. A few work documents. She winced in realisation, heading back to the bedroom and taking her passport from the small safe they kept inside their closet. There was cash there too; she took some, a wad, just because she could. Perhaps exposing just a little glimpse of a fight below the surface.
Another shirt and a spaghetti strapped singlet, they were sitting at the top of the clean clothesbasket at the end of their bed. A plain white bra.
Her medical kit was at the door, waiting patiently next to her black leather shoulder bag.
Last chance; was there anything else she needed?
Two apples from the fruit bowl and her laptop, sitting open on the kitchen bench. She had been researching just an hour earlier, Belgium chocolates in Bruges. How she daydreamed of being there and floating down the Venice type canals.
The car started first try, despite her quivering hands. The door handle had smudges of blood and the centre console was pooling with the same. She stopped, foot on the break and awkwardly reached to the backseat, crying out for the first time as pain shot through her abdomen and around her chest. The gym towel she retrieved would halt the flow, for the moment, until she reached her destination.
Once she figured out where it was.
She drove for quite a few hours. More than a few. The sun had long since set and her eyes became weary, light pain relief having had minimal effect. It was time to stop as a few streetlights came into view.
She paid the isolated motel in cash, one night in a standard room, insisting she was okay. The young attendant looked horrified, and tried to demand the paramedics. She promised to come back down once she cleaned up, reassured him that she was a doctor and provided her drivers license as evidence. She checked in under a false name, he was too petrified to even notice the difference.
Her first glance in the mirror brought tears to her eyes. She hadn't cried in what felt like forever; the tears failed to fall. Slowly, she stripped naked and took an inventory, medical kit poised.
Left mandible, reddened and tender but only bruised.
Right elbow, several grazes, glass still insitu.
Right forearm, deep gash that would require suturing.
Left ribs, tender over multiple bones, some likely fractured but not displaced. Tissue bruising.
Both knees, glass imbedded, shallow.
Left temple, behind the hairline, exposed wound that would benefit from a stitch or two.
Hair needs washing. Body needs food and water.
Life needs rebuilding.
Two hours passed before she stood in front of reception, hair pulled back in a loose, low ponytail. She was dressed in clean jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, most of her injuries skilfully attended to, taped and covered by clothing. The young man behind the counter noticeably breathed a sigh of relief; it suddenly seemed less likely he was going to discover a dead body in the morning.
"You sure you're all right, ma'am?" he asked, eyes focussed on her swelling cheekbone.
"Thank you," she responded, quietly and carefully, handing over a small sheet of paper with her breakfast request. "I know I'm late, but I would really appreciate breakfast at six."
His eyes widened in surprise and he glanced at his watch, she only needed a few hours sleep. "Yeah, I can do that. You sure you're checkin' out tomorrow?"
She forced a smile and nodded, blue eyes dull and glassy. She was starting to feel nauseous, an effect of the codeine she had taken on an empty stomach. "Thank you."
Slipping gingerly away, she slowly walked up the stairs to her room relying on her hand tracing the railing for support. Her body ached and she stumbled back through the door, securing both locks and the chain. She emptied her stomach contents first, leaning over the toilet bowl and vomiting water and bile into the porcelain. She was grateful for her toothbrush and toothpaste as she brushed her teeth, masking the slight burn in her throat.
Wetting a washcloth with cool water, she moved out of the bathroom and towards the bed. Sliding the jeans down her thighs, she sat on the edge, gradually working the material down her calves and off the ends of her feet. Instead of leaving the pants on the floor, she reached down and tossed them over a small chair, just to the side and slid under the covers. She curled up on the very edge of the queen bed, and pulled her knees towards her chest, washer cool against her neck.
It was only then that she cried; thick, heavy tears tumbling silently down her cheeks and across the bridge of her nose. The pillow collected each one; it hurt too much to wipe them away. Every movement agonised her.
And she had no idea of where to go the next day. She just knew she had to go somewhere - to heal, to start again.
Dr Arizona Robbins had to find a place where she could be brand new.