Chapter 1 #2
Marigold lay there, waiting for tears to come. They never did. It was as if her body had grown accustomed to the abuse and knew they were a waste of time.
Eyes closed, she performed a quick mental inventory of her injuries.
Pain pounded through her left arm with each rapid beat of her heart. There’d been a scary crack when he shoved her against the tall, secondhand dresser in their bedroom. She was pretty sure he’d broken it this time.
Marigold winced when she laid her hand over her swollen and battered left cheek. Her vision was blurred, too. Had it been from his first punch or when she’d been slammed into the doorjamb?
Blood soaked into the white bath mat. Cliff would be upset about that.
She set aside the thought. A concern for later. Right now, her main worry was the terrifying pain that had ripped through her abdomen when she fell against the kitchen table.
Instincts Marigold had too-long ignored screamed at her to get out, that this was her last chance to escape. She knew with certainty he would kill her next time. It had been there, in his eyes, with each blow delivered.
She tried to focus, to calm her breathing the way she’d learned from the yoga DVD Dulce had given her a few years ago.
Palm flattened on the floor, she huffed and puffed as she levered up sideways to a seated position. The room spun. Her eyes slammed shut, and she swallowed back the bile clawing its way up her throat.
She rested against the bathtub. A few deep breaths and she risked opening her eyes. Well, her right eye, anyway. She just … needed a minute to catch her breath.
Keep going, a voice inside her said. She had to get the hell away from here before he came back.
Marigold placed her good hand on the toilet seat lid and managed to shove up to her knees. Her nostrils flared, and sweat broke out across her forehead. One arm hung limp, and her swollen fingers were starting to look like overstuffed sausages.
“Come on, Marigold.” She gritted her teeth. “You can do this. Pain is only temporary.”
A little pep talk couldn’t hurt, right? A light chuckle burst forth. Clearly, she was hysterical.
“One. Two. Three.” In one awkward motion, she flattened a hand on the edge of the tub, shoved herself up with a low groan, and stood.
Her mouth began to water, and nausea, powerful and unrelenting, barreled down on her like a Mac truck.
She bent forward over the toilet in case she threw up, and pain screamed through her midsection.
Eyes squeezed tight, she wavered and planted her hand on the edge of the counter to steady herself.
She bit back a scream and somehow managed to breathe through the pain and queasiness.
Moments later, fairly confident she wouldn’t pass out, she straightened and prepared herself for what she would see in the mirror.
Some of her curls had come loose from her ponytail and fallen to hang over one side of her face.
She lifted her uninjured arm to tug and drag the elastic band free.
Hair snapped and pulled as it tangled in the long strands.
She dropped it on the counter, then carefully tucked her hair behind her ears.
Slowly, she turned her head one way, then the other. Good grief.
It looked like she’d just gone three rounds with a prizefighter …
and lost. Badly. Only her right eye stared back at her—her left was concealed under a disturbing, dark purple puffiness.
She hoped there was no permanent damage.
Below that, her bottom lip had begun to swell.
Swaths of blood marred her forehead and cheek and oozed from a gash on the bridge of her nose, which now had an odd slant to it.
And an intense burning sensation radiated outward from an odd lump in the middle of her left forearm.
Heavy makeup and dark sunglasses won’t hide this mess.
Marigold filled a cup with water and carefully rinsed out her mouth.
Blood mixed with water and swirled down the drain.
She snagged the washcloth from the rack and soaked it.
Halfway to her face, she hesitated. As desperately as she wanted to clean herself up, she could hear Dulce’s voice so clearly in her head, it was as if she was wedged in that little bathroom with her.
“If it happens again, for God’s sake, make sure you get pictures.”
A twist of her wrist and the water shut off. The only sound in the small space was the drip drip drip from the faucet. As she turned from the mirror, she noticed blood on the front of her favorite T-shirt. She’d bought it during a field trip to Washington, DC, her sophomore year of high school.
For the first time, a tear slipped from her eye. How silly was that?
Sure, she loved the shirt and hated the thought of throwing it away. But the sob trapped in her throat was for what the shirt symbolized. She’d had it since before meeting Cliff. It was one of the few things that truly belonged to her.
Marigold’s sorrow was swiftly shoved aside when pain tore through her abdomen again. She cried out, her hand flew to her midsection, and she doubled over. That’s when she saw it—a small, dark, pinkish spot about the size of a quarter darkening the front of her lavender skirt.
Oh, God.
Hospital. She had to get to the hospital, but Cliff had smashed her cell phone.
She remembered the phone Dulce had given to her the second time she noticed bruises on Marigold’s arms, called it a burner phone, and said it couldn’t be traced.
She’d programmed her number into it and said, “Call me when you’re ready to leave that sonofabitch, and I will be there. No questions asked.”
It had seemed a tad dramatic at the time—very cloak-and-daggerish. Fortunately, she’d acquiesced, and her friend’s forward thinking could very well be what saved her life.
She thought back to Dulce’s final words to her earlier. Her friend was right. Not about Marigold being strong but about her being the only one who could change things.
Fragile confidence flickered to life deep within. She drew back her shoulders.
Time to take back control of my life.
Ear to the door, Marigold stilled herself, tuned in to the sounds of the apartment.
Nothing.
She disengaged the lock on the doorknob with a soft click. Hinges silent—she’d had the foresight to oil them after the last time—she opened the door just enough to peek down the short hallway.
The small apartment was eerily quiet. As if it, too, held its breath.
How long had it been since Cliff left?
Don’t think about that. Just move. She swung the door open and moved across the hall to the closet in the bedroom. Each step sent pain shooting through her body.
Heart racing, injured arm tucked close over her tummy, she cast a quick glance over her shoulder and then slid the closet door open. Frantic, no time to waste, she scraped hangers across the wooden rod, sending shirts, sweaters, and pants fluttering to the floor.
A car door slammed outside. Her gaze flew to the window, and her fingers wrapped tightly around the hanger.
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move as multiple sets of footsteps rumbled and vibrated up the steps outside.
She closed her eyes and listened carefully until she recognized the muffled voices from her neighbors just before their apartment door closed.
Every scintilla of breath exploded from her lungs, and she nearly collapsed.
Marigold returned to her search and glanced down at the growing pile of clothes. She gnawed the inside of her cheek but resisted the impulse to rehang them the way Cliff insisted and focused on finding the phone.
Where is it? Where is it? There!
After a last hasty look toward the door, she dug it from where she’d hidden it in the lining of her old coat. Before she could change her mind, she powered it on and pressed “1.”
One ring.
What if her friend didn’t answer?
Two rings.
What if Dulce had given up on her?
Three rings.
Did she have the guts to leave on her own?
“Marigold?”
She nearly broke down at the sound of her friend’s voice.
“I—” She cleared her throat. “Please help me.”
“Are you safe?” Her friend called out to someone in the background, “We need to go!”
Marigold nodded, then remembered Dulce couldn’t see her. “Yes, but I’m not sure for how long.”
“Dad and I are on our way, honey.” The sound of doors closing and a car starting came through the phone.
“Dulce, thank you.” She didn’t give a thought to who was coming with her friend. All she cared about right now was getting as far from this place as possible.
“Don’t hang up,” Dulce rushed to say. “I want you to stay on the phone with me until we get there.” She instructed someone to drive faster. “It’s going to be okay, Marigold. Just hang on.”
“Okay,” she whispered.
It’s done.
An uncontrollable tremor rippled through her. Adrenaline or shock. Maybe both.
Marigold looked around the room, and her eyes lowered to a scarf on the floor.
“I need to put the phone down for a minute.” No matter how hard she fought it, she couldn’t prevent the quaver in her voice.
She set the phone on the bed, cradled her arm in front of her, and made her way across the room.
Her tennis shoes crunched over something, and she lifted her foot.
Cliff’s smiling face stared up at her from inside a broken frame.
She kicked it aside with the toe of her shoe and slowly leaned down to snatch the scarf up.
Marigold managed to tie a knot and created a makeshift sling for her arm. Sweat trickled down her temple and her head pounded as she looped it over her neck and nestled her arm inside.
She took a couple of deep breaths and picked up the phone. “Okay, I’m back.”
Battered and bleeding, she made her way to the front room. Her mouth dropped open, and the hand holding the phone fell away from her ear as she took in the destruction around her.
“Oh, my God,” Marigold whispered.
She’d been so busy fighting for her life, she hadn’t noticed how much damage had been done.
The small kitchen table was tipped partially over and rested against one of the chairs. Only one of the two prints that usually hung over the couch was still there—crooked, precariously teetering on its hook. The other was nowhere to be seen. Must’ve fallen into the gap behind the sofa.
A splotch of mud and a large dent marred the wall next to the window.
Below it, soil, chunks of a terra-cotta pot and her grandma’s mangled African violet littered the floor.
Marigold loved that plant, had nurtured it and watched it grow and flourish.
It was the one tiny hint of beauty in her otherwise miserable existence.
Her tough-as-nails grandma never would’ve let a man hit her.
She weaved her way around pieces of a shattered light bulb and a bent lamp, its shade dented beyond repair.
“Good. I never liked it anyway.” Saying it out loud, even if only to an empty room, was strangely cathartic.
Cliff’s mother, the woman Marigold secretly thought of as the Dragon Lady, had chosen most everything in the apartment.
Such a pitiful mama’s boy, he had insisted they keep all of it.
Said it would be rude since she’d been nice enough to pay for it.
With the exception of the African violet, Marigold hated all of it.
Every single thing. She wasn’t allowed to have an opinion, though.
She wasn’t allowed to have a lot of things.
And whose fault is that? Well, no more.
As if from a distance, she heard Dulce shouting her name.
She raised the phone to her ear. “I’m here … I’m here. Sorry.”
“Okay.” Her friend heaved a sigh. “We’re pulling into your complex now.”
“I’ll be out in a second.” She could already hear the click click click of her friend’s heels as she hurried along the walkway in front of the building.
Marigold squeezed around the overturned table and picked up the basket they used for mail and keys and stuff. With great care, she scooped up what she could of her mangled African violet and gently set it in the basket with her small purse. No way was she leaving the abused plant behind.
She tucked the basket in the crook of her good arm, swung open the door, and, as Cliff’s lingering malevolence threatened to close in on her, she made a vow to herself.
Never again will I let him or any man ever lay a hand on me. Never. Again.