Devil You Know(16)

Dylan finds his feet, and tosses me aside, as though the sheer act of touching me repulses him. At that moment I praise his hate toward me; it may have saved my life. Sad, Jane. So fucking sad. I lie on the floor, watching him, waiting for the cue to his next move. The whole time I’m mapping my escape, plotting my options.

“Do I need to start locking you in the house?”

I shake my head vigorously. No. Don’t take away the sunshine.

“Probably wouldn’t work anyway.” He paces before me, rubbing his chin. “How could you hang the washing out?”

He isn’t talking to me, simply musing his thoughts aloud. I make a move to stand, and roll to my hands and knees.

Whoompf!

I swear my lungs had air in them a second ago.

Dylan draws his foot back as I fall onto my side again, the tears running in steady streams over my cheeks. It burns; it hurts like a dozen small knives stabbing at my side. He’s done some real damage, and all that runs through my head is the ridiculous concern that I may offend him by making a mess.

“You’re as pathetic as that fucking dog of yours; still hoping I’ll leave you alone.” He lays another kick in to my side, and walks out of the room, muttering to himself while I sob in agony.

How much longer can I keep this up? How long until it’s the final showdown?

Moreover, what will it bloody take for me to fight back? How close to death do I need to be before I’ll literally care enough to retaliate?

Or will I simply accept the end, and welcome the sweet peace with open arms?





I WAKE the next day, gingerly opening my eyes to find that Dylan has all ready left for work. Small miracles do still happen. The house is quiet, and my spirit wilts. What’s left for me? What is the reason to get up? Nobody gives two shits whether I live or die, so why make the effort?

I try to sit up, but the agony in my abdomen leaves me a sniveling mess on the bed as I contemplate how bad things must be to stop me from moving such a short distance. I try again, but pain rips through my mid-section.

I have to see a doctor this time.

There’s no avoiding it.

But I need to get out of bed first.

Somehow I manage a convoluted display of wriggling, and roll to get myself out of the bed sideways. Pushing to stand from being on my hands and knees is considerably less painful, but no less agonizing.

My fingers gently pull the hem of my nightshirt up over my torso as I stand before the mirror. Bruising swirls around my rib cage. This can’t be good. I tenderly trace the marked flesh with my free hand while I listen to my rasping breaths. Tears silently fall from the line of my jaw, hitting the carpet without a sound.

So quiet.

Despite the pain, I rear across to my alarm clock, and smack the slider over to the ‘radio’ function. Music fills the room, and gives an immediate relief to my building anxiety. I can’t do this anymore. What am I going to tell the doctor? What kind of bullshit accident do people have that causes this much injury? They’ll see right through it, and then there’ll be a report done. Dylan will be talked to. And then what? I’ll finally die?

Not today.

I may feel defeated, but I’m far from done. I still want what’s mine. I want my freedom before I go.

The Google search I do on the computer does little to dispel my concerns that I have major broken bones. Everything I can find that matches my symptoms point toward an injury I can’t fix with the home first-aid kit. Chances are he’s punctured a lung, or worse.

Shit.

A half hour later, I’ve managed to contort myself into my clothes, and I gingerly make my way down the front steps. The air is already thick, and I curse at the long sleeves I’ve chosen to wear to cover the fingermarks. My eyes rove across to my neighbor’s driveway, and the sight of his truck parked at home brings tears to the corners of my eyes.

There is a god.

The trip from our front steps to his porch is excruciatingly slow on such a hot morning. I could have run a damn marathon and sweat less. My imagination goes crazy brewing up images of what a mess I must look: wheezing, limping. My hair sticks to the side of my head, and I try in vain to sweep it away, only to have the lengths tangle around my clammy hands. I’m trying to free myself, and appear at least half composed when true to form, he’s all ready at the door as I approach.

“You got a hall pass?” His cheery smile soon vanishes as he watches me inch up his steps. “Where are you hurt?”

I groan, and rest against the railing. “My ribs. I think it might be bad.”

“Inside,” he orders, looking around the street.

With the shape I’m in as I wobble up his hallway, a Zimmer frame would have looked at home in my hands. I’m stooped over to ease the ache in my abdomen, but with every step I take the movement feels as though it dislodges another shard of glass into my side.