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There were noises she couldn’t place at first—some sort of growling like a hyena, and a mewl, a constant humming whimper of its prey. Ali was flailing as much as she could. But the weight, the force on top of her, was just so heavy that her movements were just twitches and spasms. They were all she could muster, feeling dizzy from the stench—alcohol, tobacco, dirty, pungent breath.
But then the weight and smell grew recognizable, and the sounds Ali could pinpoint.
Graham was the hyena. And she was whatever smaller, weaker animal he was sinking his teeth into—she was mewling.
“Don’t,” Ali choked out a cry. How does he have so many hands? They were everywhere all at once. How was it possible he could hold her down so easily, one arm across her back, pressing her into the metal of her car, while the other grabbed at her leggings? How was it that her hands couldn’t do anything but grip against the hot hood of the car? Joints cracked and fingernails broke—all for nothing.
But Ali’s hand wasn’t banging against metal. It was touching something soft and cool. Sheets. They’re sheets. Mom’s sheets, she tried to tell herself over her own screaming. This is a dream. Ali could feel them slip smoothly between her fingertips as she grabbed at them, trying to pull herself out, from underneath Graham’s body, from out of the dream she couldn’t wake herself up from no matter how hard she fought. It was a struggle that left her stuck in the in-between of past and present—of the hard car and soft sheets, tearing at whatever she could.
And then there was a flicker of light from the dark house.
Ali opened her eyes with a gasp, staring at the glow of the lamp on the bedside table.
Her body wanted to jolt up, plant her feet on the floor. But it was sluggish and heavy. The sleeping pills she took clearly worked—she did sleep. She didn’t wake screaming in a panic, clawing and hitting her pillows out of fear. But the medication didn’t stop the nightmares. It only held her hostage in them.
It took a minute for her to sit up, and she grabbed her phone from the end table, pushing a piece of sweaty hair away from her face. Her fingers knew what her heart needed, but Ali’s brain wouldn’t allow it. He’s sleeping, she reminded herself, closing Cornell’s contact. If I call him now, he’ll be in the car on the way here in five minutes. A frown captured Ali’s face as she imagined Cornell jumping out of bed and putting on a pair of joggers before she even said hello.
It had been three days since he came to pick Ali up. The decision to stay came down to just moments before Ali told him the news that destroyed Cornell so horribly. He looked at Ali like he had no idea who she was.
You really are your own worst enemy.
A small piece of her wanted nothing more than to crawl into Cornell’s lap, to feel his wide smile against the skin of her neck, to breathe him in like it was any other day, like what she told him hadn’t really happened, that the worst of it was the concussion, the fractured ribs, and string of cuts and bruises.
Ali was desperate to go back to when the worst of it was when she nearly died in a car accident.
But on that day in the mud room, Ali wasn’t there yet. And she couldn’t stand him looking at her like she was a victim, someone to feel sorry for. It could’ve been worse. He doesn’t get that. No one gets it. All the heartbreak on Cornell’s face did was emphasize what happened, as if Ali needed another reminder apart from the bruises, the cuts, the constant feeling of filthiness.
As if she needed another reminder that Graham pinned her down, pried her open, figuratively tearing her in half, leaving Ali forever living between before and after.
What she needed from Cornell was the smiles, the jokes, the laughter, the comfortable silence. She needed bickering and banter, good, safe touches. She was desperate for him to look at her like he always had—like she was something, not someone to feel sorry for.
And that’s what he would give if she called him now. That’s what he was giving her through text after text.
I love you.
He had sent that about twenty times.
You can talk to me.
But I can’t, she thought. Because there was more than Cornell looking at her like a victim that tore her to pieces. Inside, she knew, he was doing everything in his power to convince himself that this was his fault, that he should have and could have stopped it. And talking about what happened would only hurt him as much as it would her.
You’re the most amazing, strongest person I know.
You don’t know how not strong I am, Ali wanted to reply. You don’t know how it felt to be pinned down, to be that helpless. I should’ve screamed louder. I should’ve fought harder. I never should’ve put myself in that position in the first place. So not only am I physically weak, but I’m emotionally weak too. Because I let him fool me.
Please, just call me. Please let me tell you I love you.
Ali swallowed a cry, one that she couldn’t easily mute if she heard his voice even for a second.
I can’t be this weak when I get home. I have to be stronger because Cornell won’t get over it if I don’t.
You’re not just something special. You’re something out of this fucking world.
Ali threw the covers off her legs and got out of bed. Because if she kept reading, more tears would come, and the ones that already began to stream down her face and drip on to the screen of her phone were more than she wanted.
In the kitchen, Ali quietly made a pot of coffee before John startled her.
