Chapter Forty-Eight
Quinn - Present Day
Today should be day three of my intensive therapy sessions.
Instead, it feels like it’s day one hundred and fifty-five.
Dramatic, I know. But I’m at the point where I’ve realised this will be a lifetime thing to recover from.
I was na?ve at the start, and despite Bones’ warnings of it not being a magical fix, there was still a part of me that expected it all to be over. But that’s not practical or realistic.
I needed the break, though. My emotions needed to regulate, and I needed to start the process of learning who Quinn is and what makes her tick now.
What makes her happy? What are her dreams?
And with Bones’ help, I’ve begun to learn some of those things.
Top of the list is orgasms from him, that’s for sure.
My world was rocked, and my legs shook for a good hour afterwards.
It’s criminal that I had a whole marriage before this and he didn’t even know how to locate the clitoris.
I think today’s session needs to address him.
As my recovered memories have started to sink in, other memories have come to the forefront of my mind that I’d either not thought about in a long time or that I’d tried to pretend never happened.
The last time I had to talk about a subject like this, I asked for Lulu.
But Bones has earned my trust. I thought I was protecting him by keeping the details from him, but I find it impossible to keep things from him, as does Lulu, so ultimately he will always learn them in the end. He might as well hear it firsthand.
I’ve been watching Ted's zoomies as he spins around the garden, making me dizzy. It’s become the highlight of my mornings. He stops short when he sees me in the doorway and comes trotting over to greet me.
“Good morning, boy. Are you ready for this?” He licks my face.
“Good. Me too. Let’s go.” He follows me to the therapy room, where Bones has already prepared the things he needs to.
The blinds are open, and the sunlight is pouring in.
The first few days I was in here, I wanted it to be dark.
I didn’t want to feel the sun on my skin.
I thought I was undeserving. I don’t feel like that anymore.
The last week of Bones worshipping my body and providing me a safe space within himself has taught me that I am worthy.
I’m not quite at the point where I believe my body is beautiful, but I no longer recoil when he cuddles into my belly at night-time.
Appreciating the moments for what they are instead of what my mother would tell me they should be.
As always, I'm dressed for therapy in one of his oversized hoodies. Today’s choice is Yungblud, with the lyrics of Polygraph Eyes on the back.
I curl up in my chair with a blanket over my lap and lift it so Ted can snuggle underneath.
Bones is watching us with a look of happiness in his eyes. “What?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. “Absolutely nothing. It’s just…my two favourite people in front of me is something I never thought I’d have the privilege of seeing.”
“I hate to break it to you, Bones, but Ted isn’t a person.” Ted’s head shoots up from under the blanket and he side-eyes me. Little fucker.
“Looks like Ted disagrees with you there.” He chuckles as he goes about the usual routine with the IV. This time I’m a little nervous about the dreamlike state it puts me in. I don’t know why, but the unknown for me has become less about being afraid and more about becoming the known.
“Before we start, can I get some pain meds please?”
“You know you don’t have to ask me every time you want them? You’ve spent years having them withheld from you, Magpie. You’re not an addict.”
“I know. I just feel more comfortable not being in control of them. If I take control, I worry I’ll never trust someone around my medication again.”
He nods. “That makes sense. What would you say your pain levels are today?”
“About a seven. And I have zero spoons.”
Bones hands me the medication and sits down opposite me, slurping his iced coffee through a straw, and I can’t help but laugh as I shake my head. This man is everything. “Well, it’s a good job you don’t need the spoons when I’m around.”
After a few minutes, we begin. “So. What do you want to talk about today?” he asks.
“My ex-husband,” I reply without hesitation.
He nods. “Your ex-husband it is.”
“Prepare yourself,” I warn. “You’re not going to like this.”
Roughly 1 year after the ‘accident’
Tonight is my first proper date with a guy I’ve been talking to. I met him on a dating app while I was in the hospital—or so I thought. It turned out we had spoken previously, and he was just persistent.
I told him what had happened with the car accident, and he wasn’t phased. He asked if he could visit me and turned up with a bunch of flowers and a teddy bear on his way to work. I, quite honestly, swooned.
My only experience before him had been guys who had a ‘fat girl fetish’ and wanted to ride the rolls without the commitment. Without even a bit of butter to enhance my pleasure, or public acknowledgement that I was a human being and not a fucking animal.
He visited me every day that he could from that day.
Some would say that it was a bit much. Others would say that he was a gentleman.
But, honestly, I think he’s pretty fucking amazing.
I’m still mostly in a wheelchair at the moment, using this contraption that supports me at chest height while I relearn to walk, and I’m living in a rehabilitation unit until I’m ready to return home.
The breathing room from my mum has been nice, to be honest, but tonight, because most of my things are still at home, I decided to get ready there.
The damage to my left-hand side means I can’t use my left arm at the moment.
The bars have been removed, but I’m in what can only be described as arm prison.
It’s a brace designed to keep my arm stabilised, but with that out of commission as well as my left leg, I needed the help of my mum to get ready.
I have issues with my weight; it’s no secret.
But, so far, he hasn’t seemed bothered by it.
He’s a bigger guy, what some would call a teddy bear.
So maybe that has something to do with it.
Being in the wheelchair and bed-bound for so long has only made the weight pile on more.
I’ve gone up about three dress sizes, and I obviously can’t go clothes shopping, so I’ve settled on leggings and a blue oversized jumper dress.
My left leg is out of a cast, so I can at least wear boots to complete the outfit.
I avoid mirrors at all costs. I have done my whole life. Conveniently, my mother decided to decorate the entirety of the house with full-length mirrors and likes to torment me with my reflection, but I’m hoping tonight will be different.
We’re in my room. I’m sitting in a chair in front of my desk, and she’s standing behind me straightening my hair.
My hair has been nothing but a curly ball of frizz rotting away on my head for the last year.
My hair is thick, dense, and there is so much of it that it quite literally takes forever.
I’ve been sitting here for an hour doing my make-up singlehandedly.
And I’m dying from overheating. I can feel the sweat dripping down my back, dampening my vest top.
Every time I apply a layer, it feels like it melts off.
The side effects of the painkillers are rough.
Hot sweats, cold sweats, and all of the funnest things you could ever think of are things I now experience.
Every so often she tugs my hair, and I hiss from the pain, triggering the memories of her smacking me around the head with the back of a plastic hairbrush from a young age if I so much as moved.
You would think that those things would change as you get older, but on the next hiss, a loud ‘thwack’ enters the room as she hits me on the back of the head with said brush. A wooden brush this time, I may add. The spice of life being variety and all that. “Ow, Mum. Please don’t do that!”
“Do you want me to do your hair or not?” She tugs my head in one direction whilst pulling the brush in the other.
“Well, of course, it’s not like I can do it myself, is it?”
“Then I shall do it as I please.” She huffs, grabbing hold of the hair straighteners and straightening the next strand. If I were an untrusting person, I would think she held the straighteners there for a moment too long on purpose.
“Maybe you should change your eyeshadow, Quinn?”
“Why?”
“I mean, it doesn't exactly scream classy. Trashy maybe. If I’m honest, you look like a whore.”
“Wow. Thanks, Mum. Who needs enemies, hey?”
“Well, would you rather I lie?”
“No, Mum. Of course not. Thank you for the advice.” I pick up the makeup wipes sitting next to my mascara and swipe off what I’ve already put on.
I pick a light brown, with a slightly darker one on the edge, and opt for a small wing.
It’s the best I can do with one hand; he’s just going to have to take me as I am.
I finish my eyeshadow and redo my base layer before brushing on some bronzer and a little bit of blush for colour, and picking up my mascara.
It’s my favourite part of my makeup routine because I am blessed with good eyelashes.
They’re long and curly and probably the only thing I genuinely love about myself.
I swipe a layer on my lashes and wait for it to dry before applying a final layer.
“Is this better?” I look at my mum, hoping and praying that I won’t disappoint her. I don’t think I have it in me to do my face again. I’d rather cancel.
“It will do. It’s an improvement on nothing, I suppose. Let’s get you dressed. I need to make Eric’s dinner.”
“Mum, you know Eric is an adult, right?”
“The same could be said of you, Quinn. Yet here you are in my house with me doing your hair for you at the age you are.”