Page 82 of The Heart of a Painter (As I Am 1)

“What have you done?” Iyelled over the people’schatters. They were everywhere.

“He hurt you.” His voice was barely above awhisper, so Iconcentrated on reading his lips. “Iwould never let anyone hurt you.”

No longer in survival mode, the devastating reality of my life crashed like ameteor, burning the ground beneath my feet. The plants of hope in my heart, the ones Iwatered and nurtured ever since they were baby seeds, were torn out. Never in amillion years would Ihave imagined him like this.

“Come on, Erin.” Ahand tugged at my arm, lifting me up.

Ilooked down at it through the tears that blurred my vision, then slowly back up to see Laura. She helped me to my feet and dragged me through the people and outside. Zach’slarge palm landed on my shoulder, and Ijust kept walking and walking and walking out into the street.

“Everything’sokay, breathe. Inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth.” Her warm embrace fell short in achieving its purpose. My heart refused to be soothed.

From then to when we reached Laura’sguest room where she helped me out of my clothes and into the bed, there was agaping hole in my memory.

“Take this, it’smelatonin.” She stirred me from the dreamlike state Iwas in and handed me the capsule with aglass of water. “You’ll sleep better with it.”

“Thank you,” Iwhispered, my head pounding so badly Icould barely stay upright. Igulped down the capsule, then closed my tired eyes, wishing away the last hour of my life.

“Sleep tight.” She kissed my forehead and was about to leave.

“Laura?”

“Yeah?”

Another tear ran down my cheek as my thoughts materialized into actual words. “What am Igoing to do?”

The light from the hallway illuminated her face, her blonde hair shining softly. In my dazed state Ithought she looked like an angel. “Tonight, you’re going to have ahopefully dreamless sleep. We’ll worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.”

“’Kay,” Imumbled, my eyelids feeling heavier as Idrowsed off, succumbing to sleep.

“Thomas, can you get me my phone?” Ibreathed, half asleep, half awake, tucking the blanket high above my head. The noise wouldn’tstop. Groaning, Isearched for it, patting the bed beside me, hitting the duvet without finding either the phone or Thomas.

Then reality gave me its ugly version ofgood morning, which wasn’tgood at all. It was alousy morning, because there was no Thomas, and Ididn’tknow if there ever would be again.

And the fucking ringing phone. It sawed through my piercing headache and wouldn’tstop.

Ilowered the duvet, peeked through one eye with an eyelid that weighed like aton, and scanned the room for the phone.

“Stupid birds,” Igrunted again when Irealized it wasn’tthe phone. My headache worsened when Irealized ashitload of other very real things. Like how real last night was.

Like how much Iwanted my Thomas with me.

It clawed at my fragile heart, twisted around my chest, numbed my stomach to make it feel like nothing. Isunk deeper into the bed, covering my face to hide from his absence that surrounded me. His absence that Iassumed would be permanent because Icouldn’thave another violent man in my life, Ijust couldn’t.

Everything ached. Icurled to the side, hugging my knees to my chest to protect myself from the pain. It took me too long to realize it came from within, that Ihad nowhere to hide.

Tears flowed out as Iheaved for air, calming myself with aslow count from one hundred to zero. Iregained control of the tremors and managed to subdue the pain enough to go to the bathroom.

My body acted on autopilot and Ifollowed like azombie.

My feet were thrown out of the bed, my legs staggered to the bathroom, face washed.

All Icould do was watch behind my eyes as my pitiful reflection stared back at me from the mirror, pitiful as how Ifelt. My mascara was smeared on my cheeks of what looked like tear scars.

My eyes, the windows to the soul as they said, were bloodshot and were more like dark holes that led to nowhere, exactly where my heart dwelled.

The sensitive area between my thighs stung, another fucking painful reminder of the picture-perfect life Ihad less than twenty-four hours ago.

The more Ilooked, the more sorry Ifelt for myself and Iknew Ihad to quit this pity party. If Thomas wasn’tallowed to pity me… Oh, gosh, just the memory of him…

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