9. June #2
He turns his back to me, and I realize, if I’m going to act, I have to do it now. This might be the one and only opportunity I get to move with any level of an upper hand. Even if that means merely a second of knowing he’s distracted.
With the chair still attached to my arms, I force myself to my feet, rushing away and shoving myself into the wall behind me with force.
The wooden chair buckles against the impact, creaking and struggling to stay together.
“You bitch,” he calls out. The cigarette dropping out of his mouth and falling to the floor.
He rushes toward me, but I pivot and turn quickly, smacking him with the chair I can’t seem to break free of.
I groan and slam him once more, throwing us both to the floor and shattering my wooden confines.
He swings his arm, landing a punch across my forehead, crashing into my brow, and dropping me further onto my ass. Blood trickles down and I wipe at it with the shoulder of my shirt.
It’s then that I catch sight of the shiny thing that sliced my chin open, laying discarded and unoccupied. We both lock our gazes on it at the same time, flitting a glance at one another and both of us leaping for it at the exact same moment.
I’ve never moved quicker, and with such a serious intensity in my entire life.
Because I’m fully aware that whether I make it out of this depends on if I make it to the blade first. I reach for the handle, holding my breath and summoning it into my grasp, barely grabbing onto it and ripping it from his reach in time.
I draw my arm back and sink the knife into his thigh with as much force as I can muster, rising to my feet and not giving another thought to the antagonizing yelp he lets out.
I push past him, using his weakened state to knock him over and get as far away as possible.
I burst through the door, blinking quickly to adjust my sights to my new surroundings, scanning for a potential escape.
I spot the front entrance, running to it and fumbling with the lock.
I shift my gaze toward where I came from, not wanting to become another one of those clumsy girls who die because they couldn't get a fucking door unlocked.
I twist the deadbolt and fling the thing open, rushing out and across the yard, not giving another thought to the house or man I’m trying to put distance between.
I bolt down the street, my shoes hitting the pavement and not slowing until a few minutes later when I’m out of breath and finally sure of where I am.
I cross through backyards, hop fences, and dodge barking dogs, putting one foot in front of the other.
I skid to a stop in front of my apartment complex, running up the steps two at a time until I reach the top.
I shove my key into the lock, twisting it and almost snapping the thing off inside.
I yank it out, turning the knob and slipping inside, shoving it shut and collapsing onto the floor in the somewhat safety of my home.
“Uh,” a voice floats out to me. “You okay?”
I settle my sights on Carter sitting in the chair in the corner of our living room. A man I despise but honestly could kiss right now. Not because of anything he’s done, but because it means I made it, I escaped from my abductor—I’m safe. Whatever that means.
“Yeah.” I bring myself to my feet, dusting my pants off and realizing just how insane I must look to him right now.
“Don’t bleed all over the floor.” Carter yawns and stretches his arms, turning and closing his eyes.
I could have probably walked in here missing an arm and he wouldn’t have put too much effort into helping or caring about me one bit. His main concern is solely on getting back to sleep.
So very typical of Carter to be a self-centered prick.
I grab a paper towel from the counter and clean up the red handprint I left behind on our linoleum-tiled floor and make my way to the bathroom, snatching a clean towel from the closet. I dig around under the vanity to locate any kind of first aid supplies.
Standing at the sink, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Mascara blurred around my eyes, a solid goose egg on my brow with a bloodied wound to go along with it. A small cut along my chin where he had taunted me with his blade.
I’ve seen better days, that’s for sure.
I hold my wrist out and clench my jaw, pouring the peroxide over the cigarette-sized hole in my skin and onto my tattered palm.
It bubbles and I fight through the intense pain.
I let the water from the sink trickle over it and repeat the steps a few more times.
I grab a round cotton pad from Heather's makeup section and douse it with alcohol.
I dab it along the damage that was done to my face and toss the blood-covered thing into the trash can.
I'm sure there are more bumps and scratches on my body, but I manage to half-ass the major ones.
I turn the shower on and unbutton my jeans, tugging them down and peeling them from my bloodied and bruised knees.
I step out of them and drag my shirt over my head.
I strip down naked and step into the shower, grateful that there’s a decent amount of hot water.
I sink onto my ass, pulling my legs to my chest and hugging them as the water rids me of what happened tonight.
I should go to the hospital. Call the cops.
Do something in some official capacity. But I know how the system works.
They’ll ask me what I was wearing. How much I had to drink.
They’ll have me recall the events that led up, and what happened during, and after.
If I knew the man. They’ll file a report.
Take my name and number. And all it will boil down to is nothing more than an embarrassing waste of time that I’m not willing to sacrifice.
Instead, I sit here, the hot liquid cascading over my skin, both helping and hurting me at the same time. The wounds on my body take turns sending spikes of pain throughout my body. From my head to my toes, I am one solid throbbing being.
My throat aches with the rawness of the scream I had woken up to. The memory of my skin sizzling and the scent of burning flesh lingering in my mind. I force away the thoughts, remind myself that I am safe, that I am far away from the man who hurt me.
My wet black hair sticks to me and I don’t move to get it out of my face. I use it as a shield, a protective barrier from the world.
Surely, there had to be a mistake. Maybe he confused me with someone else. Someone who had pissed off someone in power. Someone who deserved what he did to me. But he seemed so sure, so confident, that I was the one he was supposed to target.
I recall the man in Jack’s bar tonight, the one who lurked without saying much. Was he the same guy who assaulted me? I think back to their features, noting how different they were.
“No,” I whisper to no one. Not the same person.
Must have been a weird coincidence.
But didn’t I sense someone following me when I left the bar to head to the Haven? Was that in my head or was there something to be aware of? And what about the random drink I was gifted with…and the new mystery man who approached me, and told me I would be his.
Was it him?
None of that makes sense.
Why would someone buy me expensive tequila and then try to kill me? And why would the Damon lookalike flirt with me and then order me to be kidnapped and tortured?
Is it possible that it was Dominic, Coen, or Magnus? That they wanted so little to do with me that they would rather have me murdered than deal with me in the future?
Dominic literally beat a man nearly to death when he threatened me. That doesn’t really put him at the top of my suspect list. And Coen…he’d never hurt a fly, let alone me.
But with the recollection of the gun in his hand, pointed straight at me, and then at Cora, anything could be possible.
Still, though, I'd never believe it was him unless he really was upset that I had slept with Magnus.
It's been years though, what right would he have to stake such a claim after all this time has passed.
Leading me to Magnus. The dark and dangerous bad boy with the soft and gentle inside. No fucking way it was him that ordered this to happen.
Which pretty much gives me no insight on what the hell went down, further making me certain that I was caught up in someone else’s war—that I was never meant to be the target of such aggression.
I lean back, resting against the tub and extending my legs. The water runs murky with a mix of dirt and blood.
Whatever it was, what transpired, it’s over, and I will do with it what I do with everything else—I shove it into a folder deep in my mind and put it where it belongs, in the past.