Chapter 17 #2
He laughs, loud and ugly. “Listen to you. Setting boundaries,” he mocks.
“Seems I was right about you getting fucked. But you really think he’ll stick around once he learns you suck at cock-sucking.
Gosh, Zlata, you need a bottle of wine to open your legs.
Nobody signs up for that twice, Bunny. They fuck you once, then they leave you for someone else. ”
My throat tightens. I take a slow breath. “Whatever you imagine,” I say, “it’s still none of your business. And you need to leave. And if you think you can get me back by insulting me…”
“I’m sorry—” He breaks off, shaking his head like I’m speaking nonsense. “You’re insane,” he mutters. “Throwing away a man like me for what?”
He pushes himself up from the couch, closing the distance between us in three unsteady steps. The alcohol comes with him, hot and sharp.
“Peter,” I say. “You need to go home now.”
“Oh, do I?” he says, crowding into my space, towering just enough to be annoying. “You’re kicking me out? After all I’ve done for you.”
“And I’m grateful for that,” I answer, a warning light in my head making me tread carefully. My pulse is up, but my voice stays low. “But yes. I’m asking you to leave.”
He leans in, eyes glittering. “Make me,” he says, half sneer, half challenge.
“I will call the police if you don’t,” I say. “I’m not joking.”
He barks a laugh straight into my face. “Police,” he repeats. “For me? Come on. I would never hurt you. You know that.”
Seven years ago, that line was gospel. I clung to it every time he made me feel small. Tonight, it lands like a bad joke.
“You’re hurting me right now,” I say. “You’re in my home, drunk, ignoring what I’m asking for, and insulting me. That’s enough.”
He moves closer anyway, chest almost touching mine. The old panic flutters in my ribs, but under it there’s something new: anger that doesn’t turn inward.
“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” he says softly. “Not you.”
Something in me clicks.
“You don’t get to talk to me like this in my home anymore,” I reply. “Not you.”
His eyes go flat. Then his hand moves.
It’s fast, not telegraphed—a sharp, shocking slap across my cheek.
The crack of it is louder than it should be in the small room.
My head jerks sideways, and it catches me off balance.
The world goes white at the edge of my vision for a beat.
I fall to the ground, banging my head on the kitchen counter.
Then sound rushes back in, a high ring in my ears, the sting where his palm landed, heat blooming across my skin. I touch my head, instinctively looking for blood, relieved not to find one.
“Shit,” I hear him say, his voice carving like hot metal into my pulsing head. “Shit. I didn’t mean that.”
I straighten slowly, hand flying to my cheek more from reflex than pain. It does hurt—hot and bright—but it’s the shock that makes my eyes water.
In seven years, he never raised a hand, a clear, cold thought says in the back of my skull. Only now, when he’s losing you, does he need to hit you to make you small again.
He reaches out, hand hovering. “I didn’t mean—Zlata, come on. I’m drunk. You know I’d never really hurt you. Don’t overreact, please.”
I stand up, hold onto the counter firmly, not to lose balance again. I take a step back, out of his reach. My heart is beating so hard I can feel it in my teeth. But my voice, when it comes, is steadier than I expected.
“I’m not overreacting,” I say firmly. “This changes nothing. I’m still asking you to leave, before I call the police.”
He blinks, thrown by the lack of tears, the lack of collapse.
“You need to leave,” I say again. “Right now.”
“Zlata—”
I would have reached for my phone had it not been lying on the couch. I’d run for it, but some primal instinct tells me that if I run, if I move too fast, the predator is going to chase me. I just want him gone.
I don’t look into his eyes, no provocation, just get him out.
“Please, Peter, leave. We can talk later, but not now,” I say, desperation creeping into my voice. “I need to think.”
His body relaxes; I can sense it without actually seeing it.
“Take all the time you need, Bunny,” he says, his voice practically purring, in his drunken state, mistaking my strategy for surrender.
“Good night, Peter,” I look up, let the tears well in my eyes, and bile rises in my throat, as I see a smile spreading over his face.
“Good night, Bunny,” he says, raises his hand, but lets it fall when I flinch. He nods to himself, turns around, and leaves the flat.
The door doesn’t slam behind him; he’s closing it slowly, like he doesn’t want to startle me. Once the door closes, I hurry to lock it and secure the chain, leaning my back against it.
I slide down to the floor, tears flood my burning cheeks, my head hurts, and for a moment, I expect the sobbing to come. But it doesn’t—instead my brain whirrs.
What if I’m actually hurt? Should I see the doctor? And what do I do to get this asshole out of my life finally?
I stand up, walk to the fridge, open the freezer, and pick up a package of frozen peas.
Walk to the couch, get my phone, and make the call I should have made a long time ago.
Plus, send a message to Anna. She’s at some party, and I hate to disturb, but it’s time I learned to ask for help when I need it.
And tonight, I’m going to need all the support I can get.
***
PETER: You bitch.
PETER: A restraining order? Against me? How dare you!
ZLATA: Hi, Peter.
ZLATA: Did the second letter arrive already?
The second letter is from my lawyer, stating that I’m willing to drop the charges against him if he keeps to the rules and refrains from contacting me again beyond what's necessary to return the money he owes me. The precise amount.
PETER: I never did anything to you. You’ve got no proof to the contrary.
ZLATA: My lawyer says I should not talk to you.
ZLATA: But she also says you’re free to ask for the complete police file. You’ll find it all in there.
With that, I put down the phone. I don’t really care whether he’ll actually ask for the file, but if he does, he’ll find the medical record saying that I suffered from a mild concussion “resulting from blunt force trauma to the head, with the location and character of the injury consistent with a punch delivered by a person significantly stronger and taller than the patient.” And it would not be a lie, I visited the hospital the moment I gathered my senses that evening, told the staff exactly what happened, and also told them that after I leave here, I’ll take the medical record straight to the police.
Which I did, so the second thing in the file would be my testimony made a few hours after the assault that I gave at a police station.
Eva’s husband told me exactly what to say and even called the station before I came in to ensure they were helpful and friendly.
Only then did I allow Anna to take me home and search for a lawyer.
That part was trickier, with my teacher's salary, I cannot afford expensive lawyer services, but Eva directed me to a domestic violence support organization.
They found a lawyer for me. I felt bad when I met with her.
Not that I would want to play down what happened to me, but from what I learned about her, she helped women who went through hell.
My one toxic ex and a slap that ended badly because I lost balance seemed tiny in comparison.
“Your ex hit you, that counts as domestic violence,” she said firmly. “Anyway, you deserve protection. There’s no reason to suffer, just because someone else suffers more.”
She was adamant in pursuing people who beat their closest people, not just men who beat women, but also stepfathers abusing children, and from an article I read, even one woman who would lock her husband in a basement and starve him.
She also said I’ll most assuredly get my money back:
“Bullies shrink when you stand up to them,” was her actual formulation.
And now, sitting in my living room, coffee warming my hands, staring at my open laptop, I know precisely how I will use the money. My money.
With the warm thought, I clicked on the browser icon and set out to choose a place to stay in Courchevel, the place of this year’s World Cup finals.
Time to get my happy ending with the man who deserves it.