Trigger warning: mention of SA and domestic abuse.
Chapter 3.
It's just after ten when I wake up. I haven't slept this well in ages, haven't woken up this refreshed in a while, either.
Last night, I ordered a ten-dollar pizza from a place that had free, within-the-hour delivery. I ate it sitting up in bed, watching a comedy show on the small tv in my room. It was blissful. An absolutely perfect night.
By nine p.m., I powered off my phone for some peace of mind and crawled under the covers. The room was a little hot but I refused to touch the thermostat. At the manor, I'm always cold. The temperature is always kept at a chilly sixty-eight degrees. I hate that. Just because Alistair doesn't like the warmth outside. Pair that with the heart of that man that keeps growing colder toward me and you might as well camp in Alaska in the middle of winter.
My tank top sticks to my back as I sit up, the sun already straining against the thick curtains, coating the pale walls of my room in a warmer shade of yellow.
I yawn, pick up the remote for the television and settle on a cute cartoon before I walk over to the mirror on the opposite wall of the bed.
Sure, I've looked better. But I've just woken up, and who looks absolutely perfect in the morning? Right now, I feel better than I have in a while. In years. I'd say I can see it on my face—less worry, less of a frown, but I scowl when my eyes zero in on the bruise that curls around my upper arm. The bruise is shaped into Al's fingertips.
I swallow.
He gave me that bruise four nights ago when he decided I needed to sleep in the master bedroom to "settle his nerves". I guess his political whore wasn't available.
"You're my fucking wife. It's the least you can do," he bites, fingers digging into my arm, through the silky material of my kimono. "After all, who begged me to fuck her that one night, five years ago, huh?" I shudder as I remember his tone, that look in his eyes. The blues so dark they almost appeared black.
I made the mistake of pointing out that he used to love me, used to beg for my attention.
Alistair grabbed me then, grip like a vice as he dragged me down the hallway to the big bedroom, shoving my face into the three-hundred-dollar sheets, and made me regret ever wanting him to lay his hands on me. I cursed myself for ever caring about him in the way that I did. I hated myself for letting it get this far. But I figured maybe he'd be happier in the morning, talk to me more, love me more.
My mood changes like someone dunked a bucket of ice water over my head, hands trembling, my eyes wide and sad and the safe, nice feeling of this room gone and forgotten as I bitterly reminisce. Because as much as I enjoyed my stay here in the motel, I know I can't stay here much longer. I need to either drive as far as I can with the little money I have on me or…I don't even want to think about the second option. Turning back.
I have my leftover pizza for breakfast, sitting on the desk with the mirror behind me, legs dangling. As I lean back, the glass feels cold and soothing through the thin top I'm wearing.
When my food is reduced to nothing but a few crumbs in a big, square box, I sigh. My eyes are burning, a trail of hot, wet tears running down my cheeks. I feel lost, so empty and alone. I don't know what to do next. I really, really don't know.
I rummage through the contents of my suitcase, finding a fresh pair of Levis and a striped T-shirt, and some clean underwear. My nerves only get worse when I realize today is Friday and there was an event to attend at Al's office. I don't want to think about the consequences of me being gone when he needs me by his side.
He needs to sell his campaign, needs me on his arm to show off the lie of our life. Alistair will be furious when he realizes I'm not in my room, I'm not in the garden or in my art studio.
After another quick shower, it's time for me to leave. I leave my hair up in the ponytail, the ends wet. Overall, I look normal but I know it's too messy for his taste nowadays.
I need GPS, so that's the only reason I power on my phone. I struggle, my fingers shaking as I press the button and wait for the screen to load. Only forty percent battery left but I'll charge it in the car.
Message after message pops up, from Maria—our housekeeper, from an unknown number, and then the pièce de résistance. Alistair.
He sent me a text late last night, around one in the morning. Then he did again, eight a.m. before he left for work. They get more and more violent, and I find the courage to ignore them all before I try to call my mother.
I know she's in Atlantic City on vacation, spending money she doesn't have with her best friend—the enabler, and therefore she doesn't even pick up. Not even after three tries. She never liked Al. I guess she has that seventh sense after all.
I pack up my stuff and make my way out of the motel, only to stop in my tracks when I reach my car. My heart thunders inside my chest, warning me to turn the other way and make a run for it. Then again, I was never the best at P.E., and my running skills are pathetic.
The figure leaning against the side of my Jaguar looks menacing. I have never seen him before, so my anxiety grows until I feel like it's suffocating me, wings of steel and lead caging me in, making my feet feel like they're nailed to the concrete.
He's very tall, with broad shoulders, the cotton of his long-sleeved, black shirt pulled tightly over strong back muscles like a second skin. I swallow, my throat tight and prickly. My palms are sweaty and I almost drop the handle of my suitcase, the hard plastic sliding in my grip.
All black outfit in eighty-degree weather with the sun beating down on him, his short hair this unusual color. Like copper coins, or bronze medals.
I try to walk back, but I'm not looking. The sole of my sneaker catches a candy bar wrapper, making that crisping sound.
He turns around.
He's absolutely beautiful, but I'm terrified.
"Mrs. Anderson, glad you could make it," he says, his voice gravely and rough before he takes a drag from his cigarette.