Ugly(79)
“Didn’t you clean it up?”
“I’m not a fucking cleaner, Lily. These hands are precious. I’m going to be a surgeon one day. Speaking of which, you still have that assignment to do. Do you want me to go get the work and you can do in here tonight?” he asks me in the most serious of tones.
“I can’t do your work for you, Trent. You need to do it, so you learn.”
Trent’s jaw tightens and he stands from his chair. “I gotta go, babe. I’ll be back tomorrow to pick you up.”
“Wait,” I call to him as he disappears out the door. “Where are you going?” I ask no one, because he’s already gone.
I sit in my room, my cold, isolated room, feeling more alone and lonely than I’ve ever felt before.
The only thing to keep me wondering is the fact Max has been here. A plethora of thoughts whiz around in my mind. But the biggest one, and the one I can’t seem to find an answer to is…why?
“You ready to go home, babe?” Trent asks as he walks ahead of me carrying the small bag he brought me, which contains a change of clothes and clean underwear.
Once I’m in the car and we’re heading toward home, I relay to Trent what the police said when they stopped in this morning. “They asked me if I remember anything from the attack.”
“What did you say?” he asks. And I notice he decreases the speed of the car.
“I told them the truth; I told them I can’t remember.”
“Come on, Lily. I told you what happened. You should’ve just told them what I said.”
“I won’t lie to them, Trent. I can’t remember what happened.” I shake my head in disbelief at myself.
“You should just believe me. It’s how I said. Anyway…” he pauses talking and takes three deep breaths. “Anyway, what are you cooking for dinner? I’ve had to live on take-out and I’m ready for a home-cooked meal.”
“I’m not well enough to cook yet. Can’t we just get pizza? And besides, I need to rest, the doctor said so and I have to go back next week to see him.”
“He’s an idiot, I already told you that. I’ll look after you, it’s the least I can do since I am your husband.”
I turn in my seat to face him. There’s something which has been playing on my mind, and it’s always there, trying to push forward. And left lingering, it’s manifesting into more. “Trent,” I start saying.
“Yeah.”
“How do you feel?” I ask, hoping he understands what I’m asking.
“Good. Why?”
“I mean, how do you feel about the situation? You said you came home and found me in the kitchen. Did you panic or were you worried?”
“Oh babe, you’re really going to ask me such lame questions? I don’t feel anything, as soon as I saw you and I checked out your vitals, I knew you were going to be fine.”
“Is that the reason you were barely at the hospital?”
“These questions are bullshit, Lily. I have work, you know that. Just because you got a small cut on your head, my work doesn’t stop. For God’s sake, Lily! You can be so selfish sometimes.” He looks coldly out the window. “Christ,” he mumbles to himself.
I do what I always do, I remain quiet for the rest of the trip back to the apartment.
Trent parks in our allocated spot and gets out. He takes the steps two at a time until he reaches our apartment. “Hurry up,” he yells out. “Don’t forget your bag.”
I go to the trunk of the car and take my bag out, then go up the steps to our small apartment, where the door is opened and Trent’s already inside watching TV. I look at the door, and see it’s been replaced and try to think back to the day of my attack.
Looking down at my feet, I notice new sandals Trent must have bought for me to wear home and absent mindedly, I look around the room. Again, something’s not quite right but I can’t quite place what it is that’s wrong.
“Babe, get me a soda,” Trent says, as he flips through the channels of the TV.
I drop my bag beside the door and close it, locking it and double checking I’ve locked it. My mind is spinning and I can’t help but think if there was a break in, why aren’t I frightened to be back here? And what did they take? It’s just not adding up.
Walking over to the fridge, I stand in front of it and see the dent in the freezer door. There’s dried blood splattered on it, and suddenly a snippet of what happened pops into my mind. Shoes. Something happened with shoes.
I go into our bedroom, get my diary from my hiding spot and flick through the minimal entries, but there’s nothing about shoes in it.