30 Days (7 page)

“My sister and I used to think up wild things that we would never dare to do...or that might be socially unacceptable. Those were some of the things we talked about. I want to try and do one every day.” I finish in a hushed tone. I feel silly explaining it to him.

“Do you trust me?” He asks. I look to his face searching for a reason to not trust him but come up empty.

“I do.” He snags a pen from the coffee table and crosses out learn to fight and trust someone. I can feel tears prick the back of my eyes. When he looks back to me he says, “Then tell me the rest.”

I can't help it. I tell him everything about Ryan and the way he treated me. It rushes out of me. The pain, the hurt, the abuse. Humiliation fills my cheeks. I tell him everything right up until t
he moment after Ryan smacked me before noticing he’d drifted closer, the side of his thigh pressing against mine. “So after being degraded for so long, when he finally hit me... actually
hit
me.... I don't know... I snapped. My sister had just passed away and losing her broke me. I just remember thinking -run, so I did. He could still be looking for me.” I shudder at the thought and stop there. He’s holding me tightly in his arms now and I’ve never felt so safe or wanted in my life. I sniffle and clear my throat.

“Colin.”

“Yeah.” His deep voice at my ear sends chills through me.

“I have a lawyer. Joe Jowett. If anything happens to me. If Ryan finds me I need you to call him and tell him to put everything in motion. Can you do that?” I ask still feeling embarrassed.

“I’ll do anything you want.” His voice is so sincere. So honest, it almost breaks me. I don’t deserve him.

“Keep this in your wallet.” I say handing him Joe’s card. I can feel unshed tears pricking the backs of
my eyes. I pick up my phone and go outside for a moment to call Joe. I leave him a voicemail telling him that if he gets a call from Colin to put everything into action. I give him Colin’s phone number and let him know that he can be trusted with all the information if necessary. If that time comes.

***

I leisurely trail my fingers up and down her arms as we lay on the couch together watching a movie. She’s so responsive to my touch it drives me insane. I want to do more to her. I want to taste her, feel her be inside her. But I can’t. Not yet. It has to be her move.

When she told me about her husband, the things he did to her, said to her, rage made my vision blur. My jaw aches now from how hard I had clenched my teeth together. The thought of someone hurting her makes me sick. How could anyone treat her like that? She’s so kind, small, quiet but vibrant. My instinct to protect has been pushed into overdrive. Her small delicate fingers toy with the hem of my shirt absent mindedly, occasionally making contact with my skin and leaving a trail of fire in their wake. The erection I’m sporting can't be hidden but she doesn't seem to notice or mind.

“Elle.” I whisper into her ear.

“Mmm.” She sounds sleepy. Content.

“Let me finish the list with you.”

“What?” She perks up.

“I want to do the rest of the things on the list with you.” I say again.

“Really?”

“Really.” Her fingers stop moving and she inhales deeply.

“Ok.” She
lets out.
“Colin.” Her voice is breathy.

“Yeah.”

“I’m tired from all the weight. I’m tired... of being strong. Will you stay the night and just let me lay in your arms?” She sounds like she's waiting for rejection. I tag the remote and hit the power button shutting off the TV before scooping her up in my arms and carrying her to the bedroom. Her little squeal makes me want to do more than just lay with her. Her smile, so beautiful.

I stand her up and finger the button on her jean skirt until it’s undone. She lets it slide off her hips to the floor. Crossing her arms across her ribs she gathers the hem of her tank in her hands and slowly pulls it up and over her head leaving her standing in only her bra and panties. The moonlight drifting through the window casts a shadow over her face but I can see the heat in her eyes as she reaches out to my waist, undoing my jeans and pushing them easily down my legs. Her fingers tremble as she works at the buttons of my shirt. I watch as her eyes go wide when my shirt hits the ground leaving me standing in my boxers, her eyes blazing as they come back to mine. She trails her fingers lightly over every ridge of my stomach, making me tense. My muscles twitch as her hands move over them.

She turns to pull back the covers and the dim light shows a ragged scar running down the back of her left arm and another from her left hip to her calf. My hands clench into fists at my sides wondering if there really was a car accident or if her asshole husband did that to her.

When she tucks herself into the bed and looks up at me all my rage subsides. She’s stunning. Her brown hair frames her delicate face and the moon lights her creamy skin. Her bright green eyes glisten with unshed tears. I crawl in next to her and pull the covers over us. I slide my arm under the heavy fall of her hair and she puts her head in the crook of my arm, her face resting on my chest. Her fingers move in no particular pattern over the muscles of my stomach and back up over my ribs. Trailing and teasing. I pull her close to me and kiss her forehead letting my hand skate over her hip to her stomach. She whimpers softly but I don’t push anything further. I wait until her breathing is low and even before letting myself find sleep.

2011

When I was a little girl I always thought I would end up with the hero. The strong, handsome man who swept me off my feet, loved and pampered me until I died from a full heart. I would be adored. The affection and love rolling off my man would make other women swoon and he would only have eyes for me. He’d also be
the man
in bed. I’d be perpetually wet and dripping with sex. He’d take great pleasure in giving
me
pleasure and because of that I’d be all too happy to please him as well. Orgasm would be my middle name.

None of that came true though. I’ve condemned myself to a life with an abuser who is average in looks, terrible in bed and definitely never pampers or adores me. I haven't had an orgasm in years.
Years!
When he tells me tonight that dinner could have been better (if he had cooked it of course, but he doesn't- ever). I’ll nicely ask him how it could be improved, in his opinion, and next time I make it, take what he prefers into consideration.

When he sticks his fat slimy tongue in my mouth at bedtime I’ll take it and pretend to like it. When his hairy heavy body shifts over mine, I’ll moan at all the appropriate times until he’s done. He’s never gentle. Rough and fast pounding into me without concern.

The absolute worst though is when he wants to snuggle. He crawls into bed and I pretend to be asleep. He rolls into me pressing his front to my back spooning me. His arm comes over my waist and pulls me to him. I hate the skin on skin contact. I hate the weight of his arm. I hate that he thinks we can have anything so intimate happen between us after listening to him tear me apart and throw things around destroying them. It makes my skin crawl. I try not to cringe but sometimes I can't help it.

My only real reprieve is sleep. When I sleep I dream. I dream of something better, someone better, someone worthwhile, someone who loves me because they think I’m wonderful and beautiful and a good person. Sometimes I just dream of being alone. Content to live my life anyway I see fit. Devoid of screaming and hate and destruction. I love to dream.

I think terrible things. I wish him dead. I hope and pray that he will attempt to drive home drunk one night get in a terrible accident and die. Not a slow gory death, but a quick painless one. I don't want him to suffer. I just want to be free of him. Maybe his heart gives out and he just drops to the floor at work and by the time they call me it’s just to tell me that it’s too late... there was nothing they could do. I’m not so lucky though. If I’m going to escape him it will have to be me leaving him. My doing. I’m just not ready yet. I’ll leave. I will. Jenny will make me. Jenny, my sister, my savior, my rock, my
everything
.

It takes several months but she’s finally convinced me that it
is
the right time and that I have nothing to worry about because she will help keep me safe. It’s coming. I want it. I just have to, you know, do it. His gambling started out innocent enough at first. Poker night’s with friends or co-workers but now it’s casino’s and private games. He’s constantly badgering me for more money. Money that I won't give him. Money that was left to me from my parents. They worked hard to earn that money and I won't let him gamble it away.

The day it happened I was sitting at home revamping my resume and my cell rang. I have no idea who the number belongs to. I usually don’t answer calls where I don't recognize the number on the ID but my gut told me to pick it up.

“Is this Elle?”

“Yes, speaking.”

“Elle, this is St. Mary’s. Can you confirm that a Miss Jennifer Parks is your sister?”

“Yes ...what’s this about? Is she ok?”

“Ma’am we need you to come to St. Mary’s as soon as possible. She’s been in an accident.”

“Is she alright?!”  I shout in frustration.

“That’s all the information I can give you. Someone will be here to discuss details with you when you arrive.”

I don't remember leaving the house and driving to the hospital. But, when I arrive at the ER entrance I leave the car running and sprint inside screaming Jenny’s name while squinting my eyes so I can see through my tears. A nurse, I think, places her hand on my arm and leads me to a room at the end of a long hallway. A doctor comes in and I immediately assault him with questions.

“Please Mrs. Parks, calm down.”

“It’s Mrs. Darling.... please tell me what's going on!”

“Mrs. Darling, your sister, Jennifer had you listed as her emergency contact. She was in a car accident this afternoon. We did all we could but she didn't survive. We need you to identify the body and if you want, take her personal effects.”

His words are garbled sounding. Dead? Did he say
dead?
Dead as in she's gone? She can't be gone. I talked to her yesterday. She’s all I have. Without her I have nothing, I am nothing. My face is wet and the Doctor’s mouth is still moving but I’m not hearing anything.

“Mrs. Darling? Mrs. Darling? Are you ready?”

Cold. Numb. Dead. I feel what Jenny’s been reduced too. I follow the Doctor to the morgue and do what needs to be done. It feels like an out of body experience. I’m not really there. I’m watching myself. Elle Darling is a skin and hair shell, housing a soulless, spiritless person. I’m out of hope. I collapse outside on the sidewalk. Crumble and shatter. The pieces of me scattering and blowing in the breeze. The valet attendant comes to my side and asks if there’s someone he can call for me. I manage to rattle off my
husband’s cell number. He tells me that my husband will be here shortly.

Ryan arrives and sits next to me on the bench. “I’m so sorry Elle.” He puts one arm around me. That’s it. That is all the comfort I get. He doesn't wipe my tears away. He doesn't cry with me. He doesn't hold me close and offer support. “Let’s go. It’s cold out here.” He says with no concern for me. No matter that I’m shattered. Devastated.

He tells me we can get my car later and I let him lead me to the car. I’m shaking uncontrollably and the tears refuse to stop pouring from my eyes. Ryan has the local alternative station turned up on the radio and continues to listen to it the entire drive back to our house singing along to songs he knows. It grates on my nerves. I lost my sister. I just lost my sister and he’s listening to music? I want to punch his face. I want to scream at him. I want to open the car door and throw myself out. None of these things happen of course.

When we get home I dart to the bathroom, take a sleeping pill and then head to bed. “What are you doing Elle? What about dinner?” “Fuck dinner Ryan!” Snaps out like a verbal back hand across the face and I sink into our bed, pull the covers over my head and hope like hell that sleep will find me.

The next few days are terrible. The worst of my life. Ryan takes his three bereavement days off of work to be home with me. He sits at his laptop in the office doing god knows what or fucks around on Facebook. He does not help me plan my Jenny’s funeral. He does not comfort me. He does not help me write the obituary or make phone calls to let people know what’s happened. He just took three days to have time off and I hate him for it.

I on the other hand have been running around like a chicken with my head cut off. There is so much to do. So much to take care of. On top of the obligations, there is an elephant sitting on my chest crushing me. My ability to breathe and function normally has been replaced with suffocating anxiety, tears and depression. I spend as much of my day in bed as I can. I have no reason to get up. Once all the arrangements are made I have nothing to keep my mind occupied and it’s torture. Depression is a deep sorrow but anxiety is the real killer. Adrenaline and fear neatly packaged and deposited into the pit of your stomach. Your hands shake, you can’t breathe and tears threaten to fall from your eyes for no reason at all it seems. It’s impossible to focus on one task but at the same time it’s impossible to sit and do nothing.  It’s debilitating. My brain’s
torturous analytical thoughts
make me go insane.