Chapter 4

The sun shines in your face and you moan disapprovingly. Damn! Where does this bloody headache come from? You lift the blanket over your head to remain just a few minutes more in blissful nothingness. But soon you have to lift this epitome of safety again to catch fresh air. Tiredly you run your hand over your face and wince. What the- Why does your face feel like a car ran over it? Your mind feels like it is filled with thick, grey fog. Right. You celebrated with the girls. Aria is pregnant! But that doesn't explain the condition of you face. As you stretch you wince again at the pain that shoots through your ribs. You lift your shirt and see beginning bruises in an angry purple-red. You sigh knowingly. Ian.

You stand up and moan in pain. You limp to the bathroom and position yourself in front of the full-length mirror. Your face looks like a bear tried to eat it and spit it out again. Repeatedly.

You undress yourself as fast as your hurting body lets you and take a careful peek at your reflection. Holy shit. Your body is covered in bruises everywhere. Your ribs, your wrists, your breasts, your collarbones, your hips, your thighs. Thoughtfully you trace the bruises on your inner thighs.

You notice the fog clearing slowly. Bits and peaces of the evening flash through your mind like a poorly done flicker book by a cruel child. You close your eyes and swallow hard. No. Please no. You whirl around and fall to your knees in front of the toilette. You gag violently. After the third heaving of your stomach the champagne makes an appearance again.

When everything is out you curl your naked sweating body up on the cold bathroom tiles. How could he do this to you? How could the man you once would have trusted with your life be so cruel and so vicious? And how did you never see who he was? What he was? Most importantly: What are you going to do?

You can't go to your friends or your family because they would see. But you can't stay here. Not with him. Not after what he nearly did.

You feel broken and dirty, so you crawl into the shower and lift yourself up just enough to reach the tab. There, lying under the hot steam on the shower floor, you finally feel safe enough to cry. And cry you do. You sob hysterically but it doesn't make you feel any better so you scream. You scream so loudly you feel like your lungs might burst. You think that your neighbors will ignore it anyway. Your fucking selfish, cowardly neighbors.

Of course not as cowardly as the way out you chose to take. You scrunch your face up in disgust as you think about how you pretended to be aroused just to get Ian off you. You know it worked and that it probably was a smart move since you know you wouldn't have stood a chance against him if you'd just have tried to stop him physically. But the way you chose still makes you cringe. Your own words echo in the back of your mind

I'd love to fuck your brain out.

You let the self-loath wash over you. Ian was right. You are a worthless piece of shit.

You think about ending it now. You thought about it thousand times before, but never has the possibility appeared so real and so inviting. But you think that would be the ultimate cowardly way out. Before you kill yourself you kill Ian first.

When there are no tears left, your lungs burn from the screams and your skin is red from the boiling hot water, you leave the shower and get ready. You call your work and tell them that you take a leave of absence for an indefinite period of time. You feel like you watch yourself as you pack your bags.

Your mind is totally blank as you leave your white house with the picket fence and your twisted husband.

You drive to a hotel. You drive far. Nearly two hours go by until you finally choose to stop. You know, that Ian will know, that you don't have anywhere to go. So you are careful to not make it any easier for him to find you.

When you enter the hotel you tell them, your name was Jane Milton. It makes you feel not as pathetic and you feel a little closer to your friends. Judging by the look the receptionist gives your swollen, beaten up face, she probably knows it's not your real name. But she just gives you your room card and explains the way to your room, to the restaurant and to the spa area. You don't think you really feel like wellness but you nod and make your way upstairs to the sanctuary of your own room.

You have 5 hours until Ian comes home from work. 5 hours until he'll know that you're gone. You think about disconnecting your phone, but you don't want your friends to get worried if they should try to reach you.

You let your hurting body plop down on the king-size mattress and just lay still. You try to clear your mind from the disturbing, painful images that keep harassing the inside of your eye lids. You don't want to think. You just want a break. A few blissful moments of self betrayal where you pretend that none of this is happening. Your gaze shifts to the minibar. You crawl to the end of the bed and stretch your body to open it. Vodka, rum and other hard stuff fills the inside of the little plastic piece of bliss. The only thing bothering you is the disappointing size of the bottles.

You use the landline to order a bottle of scotch at the reception. A few moments later it knocks on the door and a boy who doesn't look a day older than sixteen hands you the enticing beverage. You pay for it and tip him. Then you close the door and eye the bottle warily. It's probably not very healthy to drink when you're fucked up but you don't really care. You don't think of the implications, of the shovel of weakness you are about to add on the little mountain of self-loathing.

You hastily unscrew the bottle and don't even bother to look for a glass. You set the scotch to your lips and let the burning fluid numb your mouth, your throat. You sigh when you feel the warming sensation in your stomach and the sharp edges of the painful pictures soften. With each sip they get more blurry, the weight you didn't even realize was resting on your chest lifts and you feel relaxed for the first time in ages.

You stand up shakily and walk to the balcony door. You struggle with the door handle and when it finally opens there was too much force in your pull so you tumble to the floor. A bit of the scotch spills on your expensive white blouse and you hit your back on the edge of the desk. You're sure that it hurt but you don't feel the pain. In fact you don't feel any pain at all. Not from Ian's treatment yesterday and not from the emotional firework of pain and disgust and desperation that followed. And it's so freeing. You almost smile. Almost.

You work your way back to your feet and step out on the balcony. The sight of the bright midday-sun disturbs you for a second. You don't know if it was the scotch or the emotional struggle but you felt like it was night. You think about some stupid cheesy comparison between your soul and the night but then you shake your head at yourself. Your soul is too weak, too pathetic to claim to be comparable to something as beautiful and powerful as the night.

You sit down on one of the two sundeck chairs and let the sun burn your pale face while you drink forbidden liquor out of the bottle. When you wake up, you're not sure what woke you. The shivering of your cold body or the persistent ringing of your mobile phone. The sun is gone. Your five hour's grace is over. Your head is pounding from drinking in the sun and you feel sick. But it was worth it for buying you a few hours of dreamless sleep, before Ian starts to hunt. You know that's exactly what he'll do and you know that you won't be able to sleep with that knowledge.

You wonder how long it will take until he finds you. How long until you are forced to go back to that cruel stage play that calls itself marriage. You could just run farther. So far that even Ian can reach you. You ask yourself if such a place exists. Probably. It's not like Ian is the CIA. But you would have to cut the cords to everyone you know. You don't think you could stand to be alone with yourself for the rest of your life.

The ringing subsides and you throw a skeptical glance in the direction of your room. You wait. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. Rrrriiiing. You close your eyes and decide to turn it on mute. You go inside and shiver with the sudden warmth enveloping you. You look at your phone. Two missed calls. You must've woken with the first call. You mute the accused device and decide to take a shower to chase away the cold and the new found stress due to Ian's evident discovery of your absence.

When you stand under the hot water jet you ponder once again what to do. You feel like bait, sitting here waiting for Ian's inevitable appearance. But what where the alternatives? Divorce. You grimace a cruel smile at that. Sure. Divorce the sick bastard who nearly raped you last time you tried to stand up for yourself. Be heroic and shit. Be all griffendory. But we all know when comes to it, when things get ugly, you would safe your own damn skin. You are a Slytherin after all. But even Slytherins wouldn't go back and be all happy family just because you're scared shitless of your own bloody husband.

You think about killing him again. That would probably the Slytherin way out. Just a bit of botulinum in his coffee and a half eaten 3 months old peace of meat in the fridge. Ooops. Food Poisoning. How unfortunate. You grin at that and part of you chuckles with glee but another part of you is horrified for him. Worried. You hate yourself for it but you can't help it. He is your husband and you had good times together. The moment you think that you feel like punching yourself in the face. Hard. What the fuck is wrong with you? The twisted bastard nearly fucking raped you. Shall I spell it out for you? R. A. P. E. D. There. You get it now?

You lean your forehead against the tiles and close your eyes. Violently trying to suppress the antagonistic dialogue in your head. You just can't help your feelings. Yes, you hate Ian. And yes you would give anything to get away from him, but you just couldn't harm him.

You leave the shower and while you dry yourself off you hear a knock on the door. You drape yourself in your towel and walk to the door. You look through the peep hole. It's the sixteen year old hotel boy. You open and just poke your head out, aware of your naked bruise covered body.

"Yes?"

"There are flowers for you, Miss Milton." He brings a big bouquet of red roses into your sight and you feel ice building in the peek of your stomach. You take it with shaky hands.

"Thanks." you rasp out and close the door without tipping him.

You just stare at the flowers for a few minutes before you bring up the courage to read the card.

My love,

I'm so sorry we fought. I lost my temper and for that I'm truly sorry.

Please forgive me and come home.

Your loving husband

-I

While you stare at the the cark your mind wanders to your wedding day. How handsome he looked in the black suit and the black bow tie. How happy you were. How happy you both were. A month later was the first time he hit you. Just a slap, nothing severe. Ian was crushed. He sent you flowers for a week. Apologized multiple times a day. Cried like a baby. Promised you that it wouldn't happen again. Told you how much he loved you and that he just couldn't loose you. This lasted for three whole months and then you got into a fight about the garage. This time he hit you with the fist and apologized for two whole weeks. It dawned on you then, that this might not be the last time Ian hurt you. This point was the exact moment where you should've left. But you didn't. Because you loved him and he loved you and you were happy. Because he told you that he was sorry and that it was just because he loved you so much that his emotions were so out of control around you. Because he said that you were the only person he wanted to let in - was able to let in. That she was the only person he let his guard down with. So when you hurt him verbally it just hit him so hard that he couldn't control himself.

Your black eye healed and Ian asked you to have a baby. You said no, you said you weren't ready, you wanted to finish law school first but deep down you knew you didn't want to bring a child in an abusive relationship. That was the first night you spent in the hospital. Ian held your hand while they stitched you back together. His hand was soft and comforting. You slept in his arms after that.

Countless of times this was the reoccurring scheme. He didn't even go all out with this one. Just the same mindless excuses like every fucking time. Just that this time was different. So very different. But he doesn't get it. Or he pretends not to.

But most importantly: How the hell does he know where you are?

Interesting though that he knew but decided not to come and get you. He gives you the chance to come home by yourself, to preserve some of your dignity by pretending that it's your own free decision. Maybe that's his I'm-sorry-present.

You ponder what to do. You have exactly three possibilities: You can go home, you can stay here and wait for Ian to come and get you or you can run farther. But you have a job and family and friends so running is really out of question and what good would it do to stay here and wait for Ian to carry you home like a child. There really is just one choice you can make. So you make the choice you struggled to make the whole time since you were here.

You take the roses, throw them in the trash can near the desk, get dressed and pack your bags. You don't really know if you already are sober enough to drive but at least the spinning stopped so that's a good sign. And you can't exactly call a friend to drive you home or a taxi for a two hour drive and leave your car here just to have to come back and get it.

You glance at the scotch bottle and notice that it's more than half empty. You sigh in defeat. Ian will have to wait until tomorrow. You look down and realize you are still wearing just a towel. You get dressed in a night shirt and a comfortable pair of boxers which used to be Ian's.

You lay your head on the pillow and try to get some sleep. But the weight of your decision makes your mind spin. Although the sick feeling of self-loathing lessened. The inner voices screaming at you for being so weak are quiet for know. Waiting for you to fail, to cave instead of holding onto the decision. You can feel the disapproving anticipation and judgement drop from the silence.

You close your eyes and empty your mind. You concentrate on your breathing and your heart beat. Boomboom. Boomboom. Boomboom. After a while you drift off.

The next morning you get up, throw on some clothes, grab your keys and head to the reception desk to check out.

"Thank you, Mrs. Milton. Here is the receipt of the credit card bookings you made."

She hands you the receipt for the room and the scotch. It was booked on your credit card yesterday at 12:16 AM. The credit card to an account you share with Ian. That's how he knew. How fucking genius of you. Jane Milton my arse. Well it's not like living in a hotel for the rest of your life would've been an option. You would have to go back some time anyway.

You crumble the receipt on your way out and climb into your shiny black Mercedes. You are going to drive to your white house with the picket fence and your soon-to-be ex-husband.

A.N.: Hey guys, I'm sorry for the delay. I hope the long chapter made up for it. I had a term paper to do and it got pretty ugly. Let me tell you. If you ever meet my professor tell him I send Ian after him.

However, some people asked when Toby will make an appearance and I told them this chapter, but as you can see I didn't really get to it, so your fragile little shipper hearts will have to wait just one tiny chapter more. I swear. Pinky Promise.

I hope you enjoyed it. I'm kinda unsure of this chapter because it was a lot of monologue. So please let me know what you think. Was it okay? Was it horrible?

Loveballs, P.Z.