Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Uncomfortable
Lingering inside the double door entrance and waiting for the driver to show, I replay the last twenty minutes, feeling myself getting angrier and angrier.
Not much of a curser, I let it out in the privacy of the empty lobby.
Balling my cardigan to my mouth, I screech, "Fucking infuriating asshole! Fucking meeennnn!"
Wiping my fingers under my eyes, I breathe hard and try to get it together before the driver comes. Not even five minutes later, I'm gazing quietly out the glass door, and I have my breathing firmly under control by the time the driver pulls into the lot and flashes her lights.
My mini breakdown only helped so much; I fume all the way home, upset beyond words at Dr. Richardson's behavior.
However, I'm shocked out of my anger at the psychiatrist when I see Brandon is home in a good mood, with flowers and my favorite tea, wanting to watch a movie and asking about my day… thankfully, not drunk for once.
And I'm so pissed at how this afternoon went that I accept the gifts and company without complaint.
I smile slightly as we recline on the couch together. He has his arm around me and his hand on my belly, rubbing gently. A small frisson of hope blossoms in my core, making me feel wildly off-center because I know better. I should know better. But I'm weak right now, I can admit that.
“I’ve been calling the baby ‘Bumpy,’” I say quietly.
Not comfortable sharing the name I picked out, I keep it to myself and place my hand over his, wishing things could be different.
Contemplating quietly on everything. I'm afraid that I will always hate him for how he’s treated me over the last few weeks.
Even if he started acting perfect right this second, and stayed that way, I'm not sure I could erase the fact that he’s beaten me and treated me the way he did.
That night, I fall asleep on the couch, not comfortable sleeping in the bedroom with him. Thankfully, he doesn't get angry and leaves me alone.
The weekend flies by uneventfully. I spent most of it in bed.
It only took a day, but Brandon reverted back to his usual drunk self, becoming even more vicious, if possible.
Probably because he'd been nice to me. So far this weekend he's criticized my cooking, all because I’d made my favorite dish: oxtails and rice.
Then, desperate to make myself feel better, I forced myself to relax and was busy giving myself a hot-oil treatment to help with the heat damage to my hair when he came home.
He took one look at me and started a fight.
In criticizing my curly hair, he called me a racial slur - which, coming from him, is new and threw me incredibly off guard.
I’d never heard him say anything remotely racist before.
In shock and crying, I went into our bedroom and grabbed as many clothes as I could fit into a bag, along with all of my toiletries and makeup. I grabbed my keys, snagged my favorite blanket, got into my car and drove straight to my office. I'm done.
If he has the audacity to be racist towards me, how will he treat our child?
Four Days Later
I've been staying at my office since I left, sleeping on the tiny couch in my room. It's been peaceful, being by myself, and gives me the right amount of time to convince myself that I can do this alone. I'm less scared than I was before and a bit more confident in myself.
However, by Thursday evening, I realize I need to go back to the house to grab some more clothes and toiletries. I trudge along, not wanting to see Brandon, and pray he's not there, so I can just waltz in, grab what I need, and leave.
Letting myself into the house after work, I walk quietly through the living room, gasping in fear as the lamp suddenly turns on, illuminating the space.
There Brandon sits, looking incredibly drunk.
My eyes roam his body, seeing his hair and clothes disheveled.
My nose crinkles as the overpowering smell of tequila wafts over here at me from several feet away; I swallow hard, fighting my gag reflex.
Empty liquor bottles and trash litter the brand new table in front of him.
I try not to panic as my eyes meet his in the barely lit space.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up, my fingers clench, and I shift my body weight to my right foot.
The air becomes heavy and thick with tension as we lock eyes, and I feel my heart pound just a little faster.
My lips part in fear as I try to take a deep breath, but my windpipe begins to close with terror at feeling something different in his energy; I can’t manage to get in anything but a trickle of air at a time.
Brandon sits forward in his seat with his legs spread and his hands clasped between his knees as his eyes rakes over my body in one long, slow movement.
I swallow thickly past the lump in my throat, feeling dirty and violated with just that simple action.
I can't believe I ever let him touch me, and I can't believe that I ever let him inside of my body.
In this moment, I realize I never want to be touched again.
My fingers dig into my forearm as I take a step back away from him, ready to leave without anything. Coming here tonight was an obvious mistake.
Brandon sneers at me, making my flesh crawl.
“He's been fucking you good, huh? Is that why you were gone for three days you fucking, stupid, nasty—" my breath catches at the racial slur that slides out of his mouth, yet he continues, "whore, bitch?” Brandon curls his lip as he pins his eyes on the apex of my legs, making my stomach drop.
“You weren’t even there to perform at the lounge tonight.
Guess he was hitting it so good you didn't even want to go to work, huh?”
Oh my God! I swallow, feeling truly sick.
“I’m not trying to fight. I just want to get some things,” I say quietly, inching my way to the hallway.
I stumble back a couple steps, yelling out as Brandon suddenly launches himself from the chair, stomping over to me.
"No, Brandon, no!" I cry out in shock as he knocks my raised hands away and snatches the hair at the crown of my head, smacks me, then pushes me into the wall so hard I bounce off the painted drywall with a pained scream.
"What are you doing? Huh?" Brandon snarls. "Where the fuck do you think you're going? In the bedroom? For what?"
He crowds into my space, completely uncaring while I slump to the floor, coughing and crying in pain. I moan, closing my eyes against the black floaters suddenly obstructing my vision, and bring a hand up to my head to try and stop the throbbing.
“You’re not taking nothing, you whore. You think you’re going to take my things out of this house so some man can fuck you on it?
You want our bed? No, bitch. I’ll kill you before you ever fucking think you can take what you want from me!
” As Brandon yells into my face, his spit sprays from his mouth, some getting into my mouth and eye, making me whimper and turn my face away from him as I cower against the wall.
“Please, Brandon, I just want my stuff! You can have the house. I’ll raise the baby by myself; just please leave us alone,” I shout.
I sniff, and my hand raises to wipe the snot that's gathering under my nose as my shoulders hunch up unconsciously to try to protect my face. I scream again as he suddenly grabs my arm hard and hauls me off the floor, throwing me in the direction of the living room.
Thrown off balance, I trip on the area rug.
The world tilts, and I cry out when I slam into the arm of the couch.
I instinctively twist to protect Bumpy; however, I overcorrect and yelp when I collapse to the side.
A flash of pain bursts through my head when I hit the living room table before landing on the floor.
A searing pain rushes through my midsection at the jolt. And as the pain settles deep inside, unmoving, unyielding, I start sobbing, trying to crawl away. Something's wrong. Very wrong. But I can't attend to it because I need to get away from him.
Footsteps sound out loudly as he stomps to where I lay on the hardwood floor. I shiver, trying to shrink away, but this new Brandon is merciless as he hauls me up again and pulls his hand back with a truly evil look on his face.
"Brandon," I plead, raising a hand in front of my face and trying again to appeal to the man I'd shared my home and body with for the last four years. "You don't have to do this. You don't have to hurt me! Just let us go. Please. Please!" I beg with everything inside me, but it's no use.
My eyes flit from his back to his drawn back fist, feeling adrenaline surging through my body.
My need for self-defense kicks in. I scream, managing to punch him in his face first, although my fist merely grazes his face. Panicking, I try to follow up with my right hand and hit him much harder this time, nailing him in the eye.
Stunned, his lips pull back, and in a move I don't see coming, he shoves me hard in my chest.
In the midst of my screaming, I feel myself fall back into our glass living room table. I have a half a second of awareness as the thick pane shatters loudly before collapsing underneath me, and my body falls awkwardly onto the sharp shards, the trash and liquor bottles, and wooden frame.
My face contorts in pain, fear, and hurt as I cry and lay there stunned. Unable to move.
I don’t want to die. It’s not time.
I sob. Not knowing if I should move, or be still…I don't know what to do.
My body heats uncomfortably as Brandon walks a couple of steps to me with his fists clenched, and his gray eyes flashing with evil. Oh my God. This is going to be the last thing I see on earth.
My heart finishes shattering. The pieces that were held together by adrenaline and hope dissipate as if it were never there to begin with.
“Nooo. Oh God, no. Please don’t,” I whisper, awkwardly trying to shift against the frame and the glass before slumping back down.
The sharp blades of glass dig their way into my skin, layering over the hurt on my back. A cramp burns hotter in my belly, and I sob as I lay here helpless, too scared to move, not wanting to cut myself.
“Fucking bitch, watch where you’re going. Clean this shit up before I get home,” Brandon barks in a rough voice, grabbing his jacket and making his way to the front door. He swings it open and doesn't even close it all the way as he leaves, letting the mid-summer air into the house.
Finally alone, I make a ragged sound of relief as I realize he isn’t going to kill me. Not tonight at least.
Frozen by fear, I lay here moaning softly, crying as I hear his car start up and make its way down the drive.
I gasp for breath, my entire body aching as I use the wooden table frame to pull myself up carefully.
Wincing and crying out when I feel a slice go into my hip and my right hand as I struggle.
Maneuvering carefully, I manage to weakly inch my way out of the glass before doubling over in pain.
Trying not to vomit, I grab my phone out of my tote bag where I shakily call the paramedics to the home. When they see the mess, I work to quickly explain it away. Stating I tripped, disoriented possibly from falling down the stairs last week - the same excuse I'd given urgent care.
The paramedics take me to the hospital for testing and order me to go on a brief bed rest.
I get out of the hospital around one in the morning and drive straight to my office, falling onto the couch, and sleeping almost immediately.
My stomach continues to cramp, and I wake up the next morning crying, not even able to open my eyes before fresh tears glide down my cheeks with the memory of last night.
I can’t believe he pushed me through a glass table.
I stand wearily in my office bathroom, trying my hardest to make myself presentable in the bathroom mirror.
I arrive at Dr. Richardson’s office at just before six in the evening, exhausted, and limping slightly.
Overcompensating. Trying to hide the extent of my pain.
I’d performed my usual hair and make-up routine, making sure that nothing's out of place.
I had to use more concealer than I'm comfortable with.
Inspecting my skin in the reflection of the mirror in the elevator, I frown, thinking it looks too caked on.
I cry further when I see the damage on my back. I'd donned a cardigan to hide the injuries, but in my haste I’d grabbed the wrong one. A sheer one that shows more of my skin than I'd wanted, but it was too late to go back and switch it. So I pray he won’t see.
I wait in the lobby again, much more dejected than I was last week.
Sitting in the same seat as before, I attempt to straighten my spine, but the effort's too great, forcing me to slump forward again and sigh heavily, further defeated. Entertaining thoughts of leaving, I put my head in my hand as I lean hunched over my lap. The only way I can be even semi-comfortable. My features pinch tight, thinking if I’d just been able to have the appointment like planned last week, then I could be in bed comfortably right now.
I frown. No, not in bed. On the itty-bitty uncomfortable loveseat in my office.
Taking a deep breath, I force myself to be patient. I can be patient. Because this won't be the rest of my life.