Just gonna' stand there and watch me burn.
Well that's alright because I like the way it hurts
Just gonna' stand there and hear me cry
But that's alright…Because I love the way you lie.
I love the way you lie.
-Eminem ft. Rihanna, Love the Way You Lie
That song seemed to bounce around in my ears. Every hit, every blow was worth it. I loved him. That was all there was to it. I was lucky to have him. I was lucky that someone was there for me, someone to hold me at night. Because without him, I would be back on the streets.
I would be back where I started from, trying to get away from everything that hurt too badly. I would be back in Jacksonville, screaming and crying. I would be trying to suffocate the pain, smother it. I would be bleeding, one of the many addictions I had yet to conquer. All because of that stupid accident.
So here I was, locked in the bathroom. I had ran into this room, claiming it as my sanctuary. James was angry and drunk (again.) Apparently, I was using up all of his money, even though we both knew it was just him again, buying enough alcohol to supply a bar for an entire year. He had taken it out on me, (again) because I was the only one besides him to blame. I didn't even realize how drunk he was until he started yelling.
(****)
"Hey," I said quietly over my shoulder as I heard the front door open. There was no answer, but I knew it was James because I recognized the sound of his steps as he walked over to where I was sitting, curled up in a ball reading Wuthering Heights once again.
"What the hell, Bella!" he shouted at me. This question confused me, and even though I knew it was rhetorical, I asked anyways.
"What do you mean?" I said in a small voice, afraid to set him off. He just rolled his eyes and glared at me, his face growing redder with rage. It seemed that at any moment, smoke would burst out of his ears like it always did in cartoons. That was funny on TV. But when you live through it and know the consequences, it never seems funny.
"You're spending all my damn money, you stupid whore!" I winced as his words sliced through me. I knew I didn't spend his money- I scarcely ate anything and all my other costs were minimal. And it wasn't like I didn't pay my dues in any other ways. If we were low on money, I would pitch in the best way I could. A couple nights on the street weren't the worst things I had endured.
"James, please calm down. I'll help out if you need some money," I said in a sweet voice. He just shook his head and laughed darkly.
"That's all you're good for, huh?" he said with another humorless chuckle. I thought he was starting to calm down, but that obviously wasn't what was happening.
James lurched forward, but to my luck, it was just as I was stepping backwards. If I hadn't moved, he would have had a pretty damaging hold on me. But I managed to get away from him with a cut across my face. I was lucky. But that depends on what you consider lucky.
(********)
I stood up shakily from the toilet and wiped away the tears from under my eyes with my sleeve. I wobbled to the mirror, a whole two steps in this miniscule bathroom. I shuddered as I looked at my reflection. My eyes were bloodshot, darting anxiously with fear. I had a black eye, even though by now it was yellowing. That was nothing new, it had happened last week. I looked back at the mirror, and lifted my hair to see the spot that was aching, my newest scar. It was a long cut just underneath my hairline, and it was gushing out blood as if I had slit my forehead with a knife. Just one year ago, I probably would've fainted at the sight of that much blood. By now, I was over the nausea the smell gave me. I had seen enough of the red liquid since being with James that it didn't bother me at all. At least it didn't leave me gagging.
I wiped the blood off with a towel and washed it off with some water. I bent over the sink, holding on to it for support, for dear life. My sobs ripped through me, and I promised myself this would be the last night I went through with this. I would escape. I would run away, and make the most of my life. After all, I was only 17. I was 11 years younger than James, even though if anyone asked, I was 19. I could get away and have a normal life, with only my scars to remind me of the past. But that was just a plan. A stupid, fictional dream.
I sat back down on the edge of the toilet seat and cried for all that had been lost, and all that had left scars emotionally and physically. I had never been religious, and had only attended a church a handful of times. But that night, I prayed. I prayed as I cried, as I wept. But I always knew that no miracle would save me. I would have to take matters into my own hands, something I was too terrified to do.
I unlocked the door and gently pushed it open. The bedroom door was closed, so I knew James was already asleep. I lay back down on the ratty couch, my tears going unnoticed; I was so used to them. I picked up the worn quilt off of the floor and covered up with it; acting like it was my shield. I followed the childish instinct that if I covered up completely, nothing could every get me.
Somewhere through the tears, I drifted to sleep, the song playing through my head like a lullaby.
Well that's alright because I like the way it hurts
Just gonna' stand there and hear me cry
But that's alright…Because I love the way you lie.
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