Jasper was out of school all week. I figured it couldn't have been because of English-- I didn't know the guy, I couldn't have affected him that much. But he looked so angry when he had to sit by me.
After the first week, he came back, but didn't look at me, didn't speak to me, even in English class when he was sitting next to me, he refused to acknowledge my existence. It stung a little, but I didn't know why. I had never spoken to him. I shouldn't care what he thought. But I did.
All month, I endured Doug yelling at me, hitting me, calling me a worthless bitch. I let him-- I encouraged it. Because every hit that landed on me was a hit that missed Renee. She never found out-- she had convinced herself that he accidentally slipped, and it was a one-time thing. It wasn't a one-time thing. At first, it hurt a lot. I fell asleep crying, I woke up stiff and bruised. But after a few days, I was able to tune out the pain. I walked in the house, I started cooking dinner, and I got smacked across the face. I did my homework, I got punched in the gut, and I went to sleep. It became routine. I stopped noticing when it hurt. I stopped being scared. I figured this was as bad as it was going to get. Until the Friday night Poker Game.
Every Friday night, Doug had four or five guys from work come over for a poker game. At the end, if he lost, I got a black eye. He always lost. This week, he won the game and the $200 or so that was in the pot. He had drunk more than usual, and was in the mood to celebrate. My mom was at a friend's house that night.
Doug came staggering up behind me in the kitchen as I started washing dishes. He was always a little less violent when I was doing 'women's work'. I braced myself for a punch or a slap, but I was not prepared for him to grab me by the shoulders and throw me to the floor.
I screamed and threw the plate I was holding, shattering it against the wall and sending scalding, sudsy water everywhere. He slapped me across the face and kneeled on the floor so that he was pinning me down, putting most of his weight on my legs. It hurt like hell, and I shrieked as I tried to push him off of me. He was so much bigger than me, I didn't accomplish anything. I just pissed him off more. He clamped a hand over my mouth, kneeing me in the stomach and knocking the wind out of me.
"Shut up, you stupid bitch, and maybe I'll be nice," he slurred, leering at my drunkenly. I bit his hand and he hit me as hard as he could, his fist connecting with my jaw, whipping my head back. I could feel something warm running down my cheek-- maybe I was crying, maybe it was blood.
He unzipped my jeans, one hand on my pants, the other pinning my wrists above my head. He yanked them off as quickly as possible, taking my panties in the same movement, leaving them around my ankles to restrict my movement as I thrashed.
Every time I screamed, he jerked the hand holding my wrists, pulling my top half off the ground. Them he slammed it back as hard as possible, banging my head onto the cold tile floor. Every time it happened, I got a little more dazed, and just as I was welcoming the fuzzy blackness of unconsciousness, I jerked awake, felt a searing pain from my crotch. In my haze, I didn't notice Doug remove his own pants and boxers, or position himself sloppily at my entrance. He aimed poorly, but not enough to miss, just enough to tear me a little and hurt me a hell of a lot. He drove into me roughly, not caring that I was a virgin, and pounded through my barrier, smirking cruelly at my obvious pain. He didn't give me a second to recover before thrusting, hard, in and out, endlessly. The rest was a blur of moans and alcohol fumes and burning-hot breath on my neck. And Pain. So much pain. It was like being cut open-- it didn't feel good or natural like people said sex should. It just felt like rape; dirty, violent, excruciating, burning.
I heard Doug's loud groan as he came inside me, and I felt him pull out, pull on his jeans, and walk away. The front door slammed. His truck revved. He was gone. And I was lying on the kitchen floor, stretched, torn, contaminated, and broken.
***
I think I laid on that kitchen floor for over an hour, with my pants still around my ankles, not making a move to stop the bleeding from my head. Just staring at the wood-paneled walls and watching the room get dark. I finally pulled my jeans up, wiped up the spots of blood and semen that dripped onto the floor, and made to clean up the shards of plate on the floor. I fumbled, cutting my fingers open, and hissed quietly. After the kitchen looked… better… I tried to climb the stairs.
It was… challenging, trying to get up the stairs. I leaned heavily on the railing for support, since my legs were in no state to hold me. My crotch ached and throbbed, and I knew I had large bruises forming on my thighs and waist, where Doug dug his fingers harshly into tender skin.
I staggered into the bathroom and dropped to the floor, locking the door. That way, at least if Doug came back I would have some sort of protection, and if Renee showed up, she wouldn't have to know there was any problem.
I turned the shower on, as hot as it would go, letting it warm up. Stripping my clothes off slowly, I examined my entire body-- every bruise, every scrape, every welt. I had blood running from between my legs, and blood running from a cut on my cheek, and blood running from numerous scrapes and scratched. I had a black eye, and handprint marks on my hips. There were large purple bruises blooming on my inner thighs. I would not be able to cover this with makeup tricks.
Getting in the shower, I laid down in the tub, letting hot water rain on me and wash away as much filth as possible. The pressure of the water pounded too hard against my skin, but eventually, I relaxed into it, allowing the hot water to take some of the tension from my back, neck and legs. The water going down the drain ran red for a few minutes, diluting gradually until it was completely clear. I washed my body with some gentle soap, but I figured shampooing would be a bad idea, in case it irritated any of my wounds.
Getting out of the shower, I shivered from the cold and the trauma. I had to get off my feet-- I was so sore, it was surprising I had been able to stay on my feet for so long. I walked a few steps to my room, pulled on a huge T-shirt that I nicked from my dad a few years ago, and crawled onto my bad, shimmying under the covers. I didn't realize I was crying until I felt a tear tickle the end of my nose. Laying in bed in the dark, I could feel my pulse in all my bruises. I cried myself to sleep.
***
I had stayed in bed all weekend and missed two days of school. Renee hadn't had to take care of me since I was five, and no longer had any idea what to do. She mainly stayed away from me, which was fine by me. I had no desire to eat, and every time she came to check on me, I pretended to be asleep, burying my face in my pillow so she wouldn't see my scratches.
By Wednesday, the bruises had faded considerably, and a lot of my soreness was gone. The worst wounds were the mental and emotional ones. Luckily, I awoke with the beginnings of my period, so at least I wasn't pregnant. I figured that it was time to go back to school, and staying home any longer would only attract unwanted attention.
I put on a Ramones sweatshirt and a looser pair of jeans; nothing that would show or irritate any bruises. I put on my customary eyeliner and left for school. Renee offered me a ride, thank God, because it would have been a bad day to keep falling on my ass.
"Honey, are you sure you're okay? You could take one more day at home, if it would help," Renee hedged. I think she honestly knew that I wasn't sick, but she pretended I was, because it's easier to deal with.
"No, mom, but thanks. It's time to go back to school-- I've already probably missed a lot of work." It was a lame excuse, but she accepted it, feigning unawareness. I never have been a good liar.
The morning passed by in a blur, with me zoning out every few minutes, flashing back to Friday, only keeping enough awareness to know when my name was called and give some half-assed answer to whatever question was asked. Or whatever question I thought was asked.
I was brought back to reality on the way to lunch, when I walked straight into what felt like a cold rock. The rock did not yield, and I got knocked backwards, falling on my ass. I yelped in pain, but accepted the freezing hand extended towards me. It was cold and hard, and I was struck by the thought that this is probably what it feels like to hold hands with a statue. I looked up to meet the eyes of a very surprised and apologetic Jasper Whitlock.
I gaped at him a little-- he was even more perfect up close, and I was right about the beautiful eyes, but wrong about the color. I had always avoided looking closely at his face, but now I noticed that his eyes were the lightest shade of butterscotch. He shifted uncomfortably, and I blushed, dropping his hand. I winced, once again aware of my injuries.
"Are you okay? I'm sorry; I had no idea you were going to walk into me…" He apologized. His voice was smooth and rich like honey, and I was momentarily stupefied.
"No, it wasn't you, it's… not important. I'm fine," I mentally kicked myself for almost telling him I was already hurt. I had never spoken to him, he always ignored me in class, I shouldn't tell him anything, but I felt almost compelled to.
He looked at my face carefully, like he had never seen me before, and slowly said, "Would you like to sit with me today, for lunch? As an apology for my rudeness in English, and for injuring you just now. My name's Jasper Whitlock, by the way. I've never formally introduced myself."
"Bella Swan," I said nervously. I wondered what in the world could have changed his opinion of me, and made him decide to talk to me. I was fascinated by Jasper, but hesitant to spend much time with men I didn't know. He seemed to feel my hesitation, because he quickly added, "It's completely up to you. I understand if you would rather not-- you have no reason to. I didn't treat you very well in class."
He turned to walk away. "Wait," I cried. He turned, surprised but with a cute half-smile.
"Yes?" he inquired.
"Apology accepted. I would love to sit with you." I don't know why I was so curious about this boy, but I knew I wanted to sit with him. Being around him was making me calmer, I was feeling less pain, and for once, I was able to shove aside my flashbacks and pretend Friday was a bad dream. I didn't want to lose that feeling yet.
Jasper smiled again, like I had just done him a favor by agreeing to sit with him. He led me to his table, under close observation from the rest of the school, and I set down my backpack. He followed my through the lunch line-- I grabbed a roll and an apple, he grabbed the tray a lunch lady handed him. It had a portion of everything, with an extra dessert. The lunch lady winked, and Jasper coughed uncomfortably. He handed over $5.00, which covered both our meals. I was about to object, when Jasper said, "Please, let me cover this," in a tone that left no room for argument. I accepted as gracefully as possible.
Back at his-- our-- table, I could definitely feel all the stares on my back. Jasper didn't seem to notice, but he probably got stared at all the time. Looking around, I saw that most people were surprised- even shocked,- but quite a few girls were distinctly jealous. I saw Ericka shooting me murderous looks, and I smirked, waving sweetly at her. She looked furious. Suddenly feeling very serious, I turned to face Jasper.
He leaned across the table at me.
"So…" He began.
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