My gag reflex almost gives me away. The thought of his seed planted in me again roils my stomach, and the thought of his daughter in the next room is the only thing that has me holding on. The kiss he leaves on my forehead slithers over my flesh.
The most welcome sound is his retreating footsteps. My relief, the sound of his car pulling away.
It usually takes hours for me to move after a beating half this brutal, but I don’t have hours. There’s only now. This beating, timed with Caleb’s trip, is the perfect opportunity. I’ve had these things before, but what I’ve been missing is help. Today, though, I’ll ask for it. Ignoring the protest of my ribs with every breath, I force myself to sit up, to roll out of bed, wrapping myself in the sheet.
The debris of our fight litters the floor. A shattered lamp and glass from broken picture frames. There’s a crack in the wall in the shape of my defeat—the shape of my body slammed into the plaster.
I fought back.
It was my worst beating at Caleb’s hands, but I pray it was also the last.
I make my way gingerly over to Sarai’s diaper bag in the corner of the room. I search the small pockets, almost weeping with relief when I find my cell phone, still where I stowed it yesterday. Footsteps approach in the hall. I clutch the diaper bag to my chest just as the door eases open.
Andrew and I stare at each other. From the horror on his face, I can only imagine how I look.
“God, Iris.” Pity dulls his eyes. “I’m sorry. Let’s get you taken care of.”
“No.” I expel the word with force.
“What do you mean ‘no?’” He shifts his medical bag from one hand to the other. “We need to get you patched up.”
“Patched up?” Disdain saturates the air between us. “Is that what you think I want? For you to patch me up so he can beat me again? Until one day he kills me? Because one day he will, Andrew. If I stay, he’ll kill me. He almost did last night.”
His glance roams my face, my battered features testifying on my behalf. Telling him I’m right.
I walk toward him, pain marking every step. I death-grip Sarai’s diaper bag with one hand and the sheet with the other. Once I’m standing right in front of him, where he can’t escape what I’m sure is the bruised, cut, and swollen topography of my face, I speak.
“I need your help.”
The doors slam shut on his expression the way they do every time I plead with him.
“I can’t.” He shakes his head and averts his gaze. “You know I can’t.”
“All I need is your cooperation, not your assistance,” I say desperately. “Just don’t stop me. Don’t shout when I run.” I pause, letting my simple request sink in before the biggest ask. “Don’t treat me.”
He looks up sharply, narrow-eyed and curious.
“You have friends who could examine me, right?” I ask.
“No, Iris. I don’t.”
“A doctor who can document this and all the things that have been done to me. I need X-rays, and tests, and …” I swallow shame, embarrassment, guilt—all the artificial things that have held me back from asking for help in the past. “A rape kit.”
He squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I may know someone,” he finally admits. “But I can’t get you out of here. Ramone is downstairs on guard as usual. I don’t put it past him to shoot you in the back if you try to run.”
“I have a plan.” I pull my cell phone from the diaper bag. “Let me worry about Ramone.”
“You know Caleb monitors that phone,” Andrew says quickly. “He’ll intercept any message you send.”
“I know.” I type one word in and press send. “If he bothers to look, this message won’t make any sense to him.”
I stare at the word in all caps on my screen, hoping it’s enough of a distress signal to bring in my cavalry.
HOPSCOTCH.
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