Not now.
Not ever.
"The longer you cry like a fucking baby, the longer I'll have fun." Before I can look over to where he is standing, he strikes me across my back.
With his belt.
A scream rips from my throat.
The dam is broken. He is relentless, strike after strike hitting a new piece of skin. I bite down on the pillow to mask my cries, remembering he said he wouldn't stop till I was quiet.
After a minute or so the belt is gone, and as the silence steals the oxygen from the room, my breathing coming in raspy, labored pants, I dare to lift my face.
I'm alone.
A minute later I hear the front door open and close.
He left me like this.
My body hurts just remembering that day. "He didn't come back to the room for what felt like the longest time. How long exactly, I don't know. Hunger had long since eaten away at my insides, and my lips were cracked and bleeding. The bedding was coated in blood, sweat, tears . . . other stuff. The smell in the room would have knocked me unconscious had the lack of food and water not already had that covered. Not that he gave me any. When he did come back, he released me and told me that I needed to have the sheets and mattress cleaned by the time he got back from work."
A chill runs through me. "I couldn't walk-not properly, not for weeks. My guess is that he sprained or fractured my ankles. I couldn't tell which because I was never allowed to see a doctor. Doctors meant questions, and we couldn't have people asking questions."
My eyes are closed and it takes everything in me to keep the contents of my stomach, the pain fresh in my mind if not on my body. "To get downstairs took a lifetime, and even when I made it down there I had to crawl just to put everything in the washer. I got to the living room and saw the news. Nearly a full forty-eight hours had passed."
I meet his eyes for the first time since I started my story, and the rage inside of them shocks me.
"I never once considered leaving him again."
Chapter Thirteen
Cutter
I think I'm going to throw up. Sitting here, trying to hold my shit together, is one of the hardest things I've done.
Hearing her tell me what happened when she tried to leave, knowing what he did to her just to scare her into staying . . . it makes my fucking blood boil. Men like him deserve an unimaginable death. I wanted to find him before-now I want to find him and torture him until every ounce of life leaves his body.
I look into Jasmine's wide eyes, her lower lip quivering. I want to take that look away. I want to erase all the pain from her past, all the damage he caused her.
"Turn around."
My voice is measured as I try to hide the anger behind it. She looks like she might question me but then does as I've told her. My hands itch with a burning need to touch her. I slide the T-shirt she's wearing up her back and my breath hitches. Beneath the fresh bruises of the other day, white scars cover about seventy-five percent of her back. Hearing what he did to her was bad enough; seeing it is ten times worse.
Before I can stop myself I lower my head, my lips touching the puckered skin. She shudders but then stills. With her silent permission I do the same to the one next to it.
And the next.
And the next.
Each of these marks are full of fear and pain. I want to erase the memories associated with them and give her something good to think of when she sees them. As I move from scar to scar Jasmine's shoulders drop. Color returns to her skin. Her breathing levels out.
This woman is so strong. People look at women who have been abused and presume them to be weak. It takes a strong woman to survive, and that's what she's done. She has survived hell, and now I am more determined than ever to bring her back from it.
When I slide her shirt back down, she doesn't move.
"Turn back to me."
She listens immediately and it makes me sick. I can't read the look on her face. I don't know if I scared her, or if it was a comfort.
I want to say something but I have no idea what. She isn't ready to hear how I'm feeling about her. She certainly couldn't handle being mine. And so we sit there, just looking at each other; a silent conversation between two people who have so much to say but can't bring themselves to utter the words.
My phone buzzes.
Whip: Lucy asked if you want her to come over and hang out with Jasmine during church tomorrow.
I let him know that'd be great. Putting my phone back in my pocket, I look back up to Jasmine, still in the same position. She's looking at me as if she's waiting for me to tell her how to fix everything. Waiting for an answer. The thing is, there isn't one. There is no right way to put yourself back together after you've been shattered.
I tried to force my mom into being herself again and it only made things worse. She has to find the strength within herself to survive. It's not something I can give to her.