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My fight with Bryan that drove me from him at two in the morning was not over some kiss with a cocktail waitress at a bachelor party. I was done after a series of indiscretions, bruises, and belittingings. He wanted me to give up my apartment, my only safe haven away from him, to move into his studio. We were arguing over him wanting a baby and me never wanting one.

The night of the accident, I was finally freeing myself from the trap I was stuck in.

But because of my insecurities, I was a stupid bird who flew willingly back into the cage. I am back to being a prisoner. The accident was both my saving grace and now my downfall. I had never understood why Bryan was desperate to have a baby, but I remembered having to keep my birth control in a different pill bottle to avoid his tampering with it. I was lucky he never questioned that I needed allergy medication every day.

I try to look away from him now, not wanting him to see the tears in my eyes, but he won’t break his gaze on me. He releases my throat, grabbing my jaw instead to force me to look at him, blue eyes boring into mine.

“Remember that I’m the one in charge, not that rich prick. It’s me. You’re lucky I took you back after you whored yourself out to that asshole. Did you go down on him? Did you let him cum all over your face?” He is relentless in belittling me until he brings a hand across my face again. This time it’s not my lip, but a second hit for the eye that hit the wall.

I don’t say anything. I just follow him silently to the couch. I follow him because that’s what he wants and I want to stop getting hurt. I sit as far away from him as I can. He keeps trying to reach for me and I fold in on myself smaller and smaller, trying to prevent skin to skin contact. I get up and go to the bathroom to hide out for a while.

I’m in there longer than I expect looking at the marks on my face and neck. Just seeing the bruises there, remembering the way he held my throat, makes my heart slam against my chest. I need out and I need out yesterday. I’m careful cleaning the wounds. If I remove myself from this space mentally, I can make it through this without crying. It takes several deep breaths in through my nose before I feel calm enough to start.

I begin with the dried blood near my eye. The skin is tender and starting to swell around my eye. It’s vain but I start to apply some cover-up, just to make myself feel better and to send a message. He may hurt me but the marks he leaves are not permanent.

When I emerge, I see he’s already had three beers, so maybe my grand-planned escape will work if he’s boozed up.

“See? That’s better. I’m so sorry about what happened before but you’re resilient. It’s going to take some getting used to, but you’ll remember your place.”

I plaster on a smile, as much as I can before grabbing him another beer and handing it to him. “Of course,” I murmur, sinking into the couch.

“Oh, I wanted to tell you the good news. I’ve been emailing with a lawyer; we have a good case against that prick and can take him for a nice ride. I’m talking, quit my job nice ride.” He slaps a hand on my thigh, rubbing it.

I don’t point out that Charlie wasn’t driving. I don’t point out that PickMeUp! has lawyers and insurance for just this. I don’t say anything. I just nod and agree because tomorrow it’s not going to matter. Tomorrow I will be anywhere but here.

My options are limited. Vivian has frozen me out. Even before my phone went for a swim, Vivian wasn’t answering my messages. She picked a side and it wasn’t mine. I don’t know where Taryn lives or even what her number is. I have one place to go, even if it’s only temporary.

Charlie’s.

It’s selfish of me to go there when I know I did this. I tried to create this space so he could get his life back on track to where it was before I crashed into it. I don’t know what else to do or where else to go. I just need to get there for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll do the thing I never thought I would do again.

I’ll go home.

I don’t know if I’ve been back to my parents’ house since it was rebuilt with insurance money. I don’t know if New York City is for me. The city I loved took me in, chewed me up, and is spitting me back out. Maybe I need a fresh start: away from the man I love and my broken heart and away from this asshole who thinks he can lay hands on me.

Before bed, I change into leggings and a sweater, feigning chilliness. Bryan doesn’t seem to notice because he’s already three sheets to the wind and I don’t stop bringing him beer until we’re out. Thankfully, he doesn’t pick up on the fact that I’m forcing beer down his throat. He passes out at nine, and by ten, I’m waving a hand in front of his face to see if he’s awake. When he doesn’t move, I don’t waste another second. I grab the sweatshirt he uses when he comes and goes. It’s not warm enough by far but it’s going to have to do.

I quietly shuffle things around, looking for my wallet and credit cards but when Bryan stirs, I still. I’m quiet for a few minutes as I listen to the even sounds of his breathing. I can deal with getting that stuff later. I’m done being a prisoner in my own apartment.

I step outside the apartment, shoes in hand. I'm quick to throw them on before running down the stairs, regardless of the pain in my ribs and leg.

I had forgotten about the snow until I step into the cold February air. The fresh air helps to drown out the reek of weed and beer on the sweatshirt. The essence of Bryan is something that makes me sick.

The last time I left Bryan in a flurry in the middle of the night, it was pouring. I stopped long enough outside his apartment to block him on everything, utterly and completely done with his brand of bullshit. This time, it’s snowing during my escape and I have nothing: no money, no bike, and no phone. If I get hit by another car, there will be no way to know who I am. The snow is heavy and thick as it falls. There has already been quite a bit of accumulation.

I’m on the wrong side of town from Charlie and I don’t know how I’m going to make the trek there. A quick glance around shows the streets mostly deserted. So, I have to start with one step at a time. Getting from Washington Heights to Charlie’s place on the Upper East Side isn’t the easiest of things to do even in the best of conditions. The subway doesn’t run crosstown this high up.

With no cabs in sight, I start walking. I need to put as much distance as I can between Bryan and me in case he wakes up. I don't know if he would follow me and track me down, but I’m not willing to risk it. I’ll make my way toward the subway and even if it takes me an hour to get there, it’s better than standing here and crying about the situation.

I regret not taking his phone and calling for help but in the dark of the apartment, I didn’t know where it was and it wasn’t worth the risk to look for it. A few cabs speed past me, their lights off, either occupied or done for the night. I still try to flag them down, hoping one will take pity on me. I had given up hope when it finally happens: a cab pulls up beside me. The driver leans over and calls out through the rolled-down passenger window. I try to open the back door but it’s locked.

“Do you have any money?” he asks and I realize I must look like a crazy person. I’m in a ratty hoodie and leggings in the middle of a snow storm. It's a terrible thought, but I probably wouldn’t help me.

“Well, not exactly, but…” I never get to finish before he drives away. I rub my arms, desperate to warm up, and I keep walking. After another ten minutes, my hope drops further.

I am a New Yorker, not a survivalist. How long will it take to get frostbite? I can’t walk much further. My body is trying to do what it can to conserve energy. I need to push on but my fight is fading. I start to cry, dropping my head into my hands. It’s not helping, but I don’t know what else I can do. I hear the sound of a car coming and I turn, waving my arms frantically. My heart soars when the cab stops. The backdoor is open and I climb in, thankful for the heat. A shiver shakes my body as it warms up.

“You crazy or homeless?” the driver asks, looking at me before turning on the meter.


Tags: Nicole Sanchez Romance