Tap Tap
Wrists bruised and rubbed raw.
Tap Tap
A black and blue handprint on my throat.
Tap Tap
The straps on my dress; torn to shreds.
Tap Tap
My eye; swollen to the point I almost can't see.
Tap Tap
His laugh; cold, merciless, and unforgiving.
Bang Bang
"Audrey? Audrey, are you okay?"
A voice reaching down through the dark haze. It's. . . concerned. Worried.
Bang Bang
"Audrey?" Then to himself, "Oh, please be okay Audrey,"
The voice sounds familiar, but I can't put a face to it in my pain-induced stupor. All I can do is wait for him to come back. To release me.
"Audrey?" Another pause. "Audrey . . . I, um . . . I'm coming in . . . because, I . . . um . . . wanna make sure you're okay . . . so . . . I, um . . . apologize for intruding"
Distantly, I hear the doorknob turn and the door creak slowly open. Orin must have left it unlocked when he left . . . leaving me vulnerable to the many creeps on Skid Row. Some instinct or another tells me to hide. To cower away. But I can't bring myself to move.
There's a sharp intake of breath.
"Oh god, Audrey," Quick footsteps. I keep my good eye closed, hoping he'll just leave. But deep down I know whoever it is won't. I'm too vulnerable. He could do anything he wanted to me, and I wouldn't be able to stop him.
"Please, Audrey. Say something, please," The voice is desperate.
I feel the owner of the voice crouch down next to me. It isn't until I feel his gentle touch on my bruised shoulder that I realize who it is.
It's Seymour.
Sweet, kind, gentle Seymour.
Unsure, he carefully tries to roll me from my side to my back. In doing so, the rope tying me to the bed leg pulls tighter, digging deeper into my wrists. I cry out, causing Seymour to jerk his hands away.
"Oh god, Audrey, I'm so sorry," His hands hover above my broken body, unsure of what to do. I still can't bring myself to move or speak.
"It's okay, Audrey, I'm here," He suddenly finds the courage to take action. He carefully brings his hands to the knot, fiddling with it, trying to get it to fall loose. But Orin left it so unbearably tight, it's nearly impossible. After fifteen minutes of my quiet moans and Seymour's profuse apologies, the rope finally loosens enough for me to slip my hands free from its relentless grasp.
"Thank you," I mutter through chapped lips. Brushing my frazzled hair out of my face, he tenderly scoops me up and rests me on the bed. The run-down mattress feels like a cloud on my bruised and beaten body, but resting in Seymour's arms feels even better. I try to tell him what happened, that it was my fault, that I'll be fine, that it hardly ever gets this bad . . . But I can't find the words. They come out as indecipherable syllables.
"Shh, it's over now," he whispers, rocking me gently. I let my head rest on his shoulder, knowing well that it isn't over. He'll come back. He always does.
But for now, I let myself believe Seymour's words. I let him comfort me. I let him rock me.
I let myself love him.