“Alcohol?” I clarified, my voice quivering. “Only if I can’t avoid it.”
“Coffee?” he asked, and I was thankful he didn’t push. I’d had so much pushing in my life.
“Tea,” I clarified.
“Okay. I will run you a bath. Then while you take it, I will make you tea. How do you like it?”
“Two sugars. No milk. It’s in the…”
“I will find it. No worries. Come on,” he said, slowly moving to stand, offering his hand to me.
I watched as my own shaky one rose, rested, finding his palm wide, rough, calloused. Then his fingers curled, blocking mine entirely from view as he gently pulled me up onto my feet, led me out of the library, up the stairs, waiting for a cue from me for the direction of the master, then through it and into the bath where he ran the water, tossed in a little of everything I had laid around it decoratively – salts, bombs, soap flowers, and squeezed nearly half a bottle of my vanilla bath wash in as well.
“Clothes, sweetheart?” he prompted while I simply stood there numbly, stupidly, watching him run me a bath like that was part of his job when it wasn’t. “No, I’ll get them. Just tell me what. You want another of these?” he asked, waving a hand at my floor-length nightie.
“No. Anything but this,” I told him, meaning it as I walked into the bathroom, stopping in front of the vanity to look at myself.
It didn’t matter how many times I had done this, seen this mess of myself in the mirror, it never stopped hurting my vanity a bit.
Swollen, bloody, puffy, cut.
You could barely see what I looked like underneath it all.
“I’ll clean all that,” Smith offered, coming up behind me to set what appeared to be my softest workout leggings – something Teddy had firm rules about only being worn while working out despite what popular culture said -, and a sweatshirt that I all but forgot I had – one that had been given to me at a charity event by a bunch of kids who made it themselves. It was an awful, bright green with a brown tree trunk up the center with little hands making the leaves in an autumnal starburst – russets, oranges, yellows, deep purples, even a few brown.
Alberry Park Children’s Center was scrawled underneath in white font meant to look childlike.
Teddy told me to toss it. I simply buried it in the very back of my yoga pant cubicle in the built-in wardrobe. He never knew it was there. For three years.
Panties were wedged between the pants and shirt, hidden like he was trying to protect my modesty, something unexpectedly sweet given the situation. He’d picked one of the few of the simple cotton pairs too – not the dozens of silk, lace numbers, cheeky thongs, G-strings. Teddy had opinions and rules about underwear as well.
“It’s okay. I can do it. I… know a thing or two,” I offered, not wanting to give too much of my experience with said things away even though he already knew that Teddy beat me. Obviously. I just didn’t want too much more sympathy from anyone.
“Alright. Take your time. I won’t pour the water until I hear you coming,” he told me, not assuring me that the night ahead of us would be short. I imagined it was going to be long and tedious still. I appreciated him not lying or sugar-coating the truth.
“Thank you,” I told him, feeling another wave of shivers overtaking me, suddenly in desperate need of the hot water.
“Call if you need anything,” he told me, moving out, closing the door to the hall behind him.
Alone again, I wet a soft washcloth with witch hazel and cleaned my cuts. Washcloths were key. I learned that a long time ago. If you used a cotton ball or makeup remover round, the cotton would get scraggly and get caught in the rough skin around cuts. Then you’d have to pick it out. Which didn’t feel great. Washcloths were the way to go.
Clean, I wiped a little triple antibiotic on some of the scratches, wet a fresh washcloth with cold water to lay over my puffy eyes, stripped, stopped the water, and climbed in.
Still, warm, every ache and pain came back to me, stronger than before, the water doing nothing to soothe it.
I needed some ibuprofen and sleep.
I’d feel better then.
But the ibuprofen was in my nightstand. And rest was a while off yet.
I tried not to think too much, to let the worry seep in. There was no use for it. Not until Smith told me what there was to worry about.
Maybe I should have been feeling guilt, too, as the events got a chance to settle in.
And maybe it made me an awful person, someone truly wicked and unredeemable, but I felt no guilt. Not even a small dash of it.