I’m pinned back by the seat belt. The tires screech. The car crashes forward. My body jolts forward. The metal twists and groans. The glass shatters. My mom screams. I can’t see her. Only my Dad. My vision focuses on the tree. Heat overwhelms my shaking body. And then nothing.
No sound. Shards of glass. They stick out of my trembling arm. I carefully lift it and grip the broken glass. My shaking fingers slip and the pain makes me moan in agony. My voice. It’s the only noise. I try to move; I need to help them…
“Becca!” Who’s screaming my name. They can’t. They can’t yell for me. “Wake up!” They never yelled for me. “Babe, wake up!” My body shakes and I struggle to move.
My eyes slowly open. “Becca?” Dom’s face is pained; his light blue eyes look so sad. I blink back the tiredness overwhelming me and that’s when I feel the pain.
“Dom.” I wince. Fuck, my body hurts.
“Shit.” He lays me down on the bed and crawls to the nightstand. He leans over, still on the bed and reads the back of the bottle. Yes, please. My chest fucking hurts and these damn abrasions on my ankles and wrists sting like a bitch. I want to climb back into the bath.
“Thank you.” I manage to say before opening my mouth to take the pill. He tilts the glass of water to my lips and I take it with a trembling hand. Fuck it hurts.
“Are you alright?” He asks with a weary look. His brows are pinched together, making a deep crease in his forehead.
“I’m fine.” I answer handing the glass back.
He takes the glass and sets it on the table. “I fucking hate that you do that,” he says crawling back to lay next to me. He pulls my body into his gently. “You’re not fine.” He kisses my neck. “You weren’t fine.”
I have a vague memory of being in pain before waking up in his arms. “I still hurt, but it will take some time to heal.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” His voice is hard.
“I don’t understand.”
“You were begging for it to stop.” His voice is pained. I turn in his arms and watch as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “You kept saying ‘no.’” I turn back on my side with my back to his chest and stare across the room.
“It was just a dream.” It’s the only answer I have for him.
“It was a memory.”
“What do you want from me?” I ask him with contempt. His grip on me tightens.
“I just want you to talk to me.” He pulls me into his chest and kisses my neck. His tender touch makes me relax.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” What can I say? They hurt me. I’m still getting over it. There. What more can I offer?
“You can’t just hide from this.” His voice is just barely more than a murmur.
“It’s not hiding; it’s moving on. That’s what you do. You move on.”
“How can you move on without giving yourself any time to grieve?”
“You want me to be sad?” I turn in his arms and keep far enough away to look straight into his eyes. “Not everyone grieves the same way. Some people take time to really grasp the reality. Others seek out humor and positivity. Then there are people who’d rather just leave what can’t be undone alone and move forward with what they can change.” I search his face for his reaction, but he gives me nothing.
“I can’t change what happened to me. I’m only in charge of the present and my future. I learned that long ago. And I’m happy with that.”
“How can you move on so quickly?” His voice is laced with disbelief.
“I haven’t. Grief is a journey. It never ends.” Shock sparks in his eyes and then understanding. If there is an end, I have yet to find it.
“How bad does it hurt?”
“The medicine is already working.” It is. My body already feels less tense and the sharp pains have turned dull.
He shakes his head gently. “Not that pain.” My chest hurts from his words. My heart clenching and tears prick behind my eyes.
“Some days a lot. Some days I don’t even feel it.”
He nods his head. “Tell me.”
“I don’t want to,” my throat’s hoarse, making my words crack. I don’t. I’ve tried to talk about it before, I just can’t.
“Well there’s what happened because of me. That’s adding to it.”
“Yes. It is.” I can’t lie. I’m not fucking okay. What they did to me was horrific and I’m shocked I survived it. But I survived because I fought. And I’m damned proud of that.
“And your ex,” guilt eats away at me. I should be grieving more for him. I turn away from him and settle my back against his chest. I’m not responding to that. I don’t want to.