Count On Me(86)

Shortly after she finished with me, the Doctor came in and filled me in as much as he could on what happened to me. For the most part, I already knew it had something to do with Dean, but hearing all the injuries I had, that was a bit of a surprise.

I told the cops as much as I could about what happened, even telling them what happened earlier in the night, so that in some way they’d know he wasn’t entirely to blame for it. I’m the one that went home drunk, knowing what would happen. I brought it on myself and I wasn’t going to make light of it. Not anymore.

It’s then that they told me something I didn’t know. If hearing about my injuries surprised me, this damn near blew me away completely.

Isabelle is the one that called 9-1-1. She’s the one that told them exactly what happened when they showed up and she’s the reason that I made it to the hospital instead of eventually bleeding out on the floor. I have no doubt that if she hadn’t done that; Dean would have just continued his assault until I was dead.

As ready as I was to die after everything that happened, I’m glad that it didn’t get to that point. I wasn’t suicidal, just broken.

They’ve got Dean in custody and regardless of what I told them about my drunkenness, they’re pressing charges anyway. Child endangerment is something they threw around, as well as child abuse. I’m three months away from turning eighteen; there isn’t a part of me that’s still a child, but apparently, none of that matters to them. He’s finally going to pay for what he’s been doing to me all of these years and it’s all because of her.

What she was thinking coming over to my house, I don’t know, but I can imagine what would be happening now if she didn’t. Whatever her reasons were, I’m never going to be able to repay her.

They released me today, two days after everything and it’s been hard coming back here. I thought I knew what I was going to find the minute I opened the door, but there’s no amount of preparation I could do that could have readied me for the scene in front of me now.

Where I expected to see my blood, the broken table, shards of glass, I see nothing. The brown carpet is gone and there’s a white one in its place. It hits me as I stare at it in shock that when my mom bought it years before, it had been white. It’s only after all the parties, fights and other general insanity we’ve lived, that it turned brown. Where the glass table had been, a wooden one now sits and there’s nothing on top of it, but a couple of books and magazines.

The bar’s completely wiped down, the mess from before gone and as I make my way over the fridge, opening the cupboards as I go, I see that all of the food that had been thrown around or emptied all over the house, is now placed neatly in lines, along with the dishes.

Everything is the way it should have been. The way that, from the time mom split, I wanted it to be. If I didn’t know the real horror that had taken place here, I would have thought I walked into a whole different house. Not just any random house either, a real home.

You don’t have to be genius to know who did this. There’s only one person in my sad existence that would have cared enough to make this happen.

Isabelle.

Despite calling it in and making sure the police knew everything that happened to me, she hadn’t come to the hospital once in the two days I was there. She didn’t call, even though I stupidly tested the line in the room a few times to make sure that it worked, so she could. I’d given up on ever hearing from her again by the time they let me out.

I know why she didn’t come. She’d been making sure that when I did get released, I had a clean house to come back to. Isabelle and her mom no doubt, wanted to be sure that I had a home, the one thing I never thought I would ever be afforded again.

Wondering if they did the same to the bedrooms, I grab a soda from the fully stocked fridge and make my way down the hall toward my room.

Pushing the door open and scanning around inside, I see that what they did with the front of the house, they also did in here. There’s a whole new set of sheets and blankets on my bed, and everything has been moved around in a way that makes me think they wanted to make it easier for me to get around, should I need it.

I had my shit all over the place before and liked it that way. I knew where everything was, even though it was usually in a pile all over the floor. Now though, the TV and the stand are up against the wall, I can actually see my carpet again and all my clothes, CD’s and other crap is mysteriously out of sight or straightened in the shelves that now cover my walls.

Seeing all the work they put into this room alone, I want to run across the street and thank them, but after everything I put her through, I can’t do that. I can still remember what happened earlier that night, the goodbye crystal clear in my head. So as much as I want to thank them for everything they’ve done, I can’t.