No One But Me

Chapter 12 - Redemption

You can't be sure what time it is when you awake from the slumber of the night before. The morning sun peaks through the curtains in your bedroom, beams of bright light streaming across your floor.

You are laying on your side and there is a throbbing in your head. You try to lift it off the pillow and are immediately struck by the heaviness of it, as if there is a weight inside your skull. You open your eyes and blink away the sleep crusted along your lash line and a bolt of pain shoots up the side of your face. You wince. Your whole face feels tender.

Then you are hit with the memory of Joel's hands all over you, the cruel violence his body inflicted upon yours. It comes flooding back to you in an abrupt wave of terror, causing your breathing to hitch.

Is he here right now?

You cannot feel the burning warmth of his body beside you or the weight of his limbs ontop of your own. Holding your breath inside your lungs, your pulse quickening rapidly, you very slowly roll your head to face behind you.

But his side of the bed is empty. You're alone.

You exhale a long breath of relief. You really cannot handle seeing Joel right now, not until you properly assess whatever damage he has caused, not until your brain can piece together just what had happened. You debate whether to stay laying in bed to rest or to brave the confrontation of whatever happened last night when you rise. With every progressing minute you become more cognisant of the injuries inflicted on your body, your mind becoming aware of all the different parts of you that throb.

You eventually decide to get up and go to the bathroom.

It takes you several minutes to sit up at the edge of the mattress and attempt to walk. As soon as you stand a gush of semen spills from between your thighs and runs down your legs. You spy the dress you wore last night crumpled on the floor, and you pick it up to clean yourself with before the evidence of Joel's rampage drips onto the floor. You clench your teeth and hiss at the burning sting when you move your legs - you must be torn.

You enter the bathroom, steeling yourself before peeking into the mirror. You aren't prepared for the reflection that confronts you, how the bruises correspond accordingly to each and every painful pulsation that you feel.

The ache of the right side of your temple and the left apple of your cheek are reflected by a smattering of purple bruises. Faint red imprints in the shape of fingertips on your face. Your bottom lip stings from where it is split at the corner of your mouth, a smear of dried blood blooming around it. Your hair is knotted and messy atop your sensitive scalp. Nasty purple bruises cup your sore kneecaps.

You assess yourself with clinical detachment, almost as if you have disconnected from your physical self once more. It is impossible for you to think coherently about what your body had suffered through; piecing together the events of the previous nights would have to wait. All you want to do is shower and rid yourself of the invisible grime and smells that cling to your skin.

You start the shower and spend the next ten minutes scrubbing every inch of your body with the lemon myrtle scented soap you splurged on at one of the boutiques in town. You lather yourself generously with the bar and rinse off under the steady stream of warm water, then repeat it all once more. You scrub at your skin harshly, desperate to shed the filth you swear you can feel itching you.

Your hands roam between your thighs and gently wash your vulva with the warm water. You aren't brave enough to look down there just yet but the swelling around the entrance to your vagina tells you enough. You are equally tender when you wash your hair, trying to avoid irritating your scalp even more.