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I sleep for as long as I can, hoping that the next time I see Maksim, he won't be so mad at me.
30
The following week passes in agonizing, numb slow motion.
I wake the next morning, after Maksim beat the shit out of me and sexually violated me for the first time, and I'm in agony. My back is split and crusty with scabs, my hips ache from being banged so hard, and my arm is throbbing, oozing with clear fluid.
I manage to climb out of bed and hobble to the kitchen so I can thoroughly clean the bite mark. I must before it gets infected.
Slumping against the kitchen countertop, I grab a bottle of vodka from the side and twist off the cap, keeping all thoughts at bay—I'm in no right frame of mind to be thinking. I hold out my wounded arm over the sink, shut my eyes, and I pour.
“Aargh!” I scream my heart out, tipping up the bottle to stop the cold, burning liquid from touching my skin. I'm trembling from head to toe, cold sweat clinging to my flesh. My arm feels like it's double the size because it's so swollen and the puncture marks burn like a bitch.
I pour again and scream, again and scream.
By the time the bottle is empty, the wound is throbbing.
Taking deep, steady breaths, fighting not to pass out, I put down the bottle on the countertop and get the medical kit out of the drawer to wrap up the wound, ensuring it's not too tight nor too lose.
I roll the bandage around my arm with caution, wincing at the pressure, the smell of the elastic material reminding me of something clinical.
Done.
I breathe out.
It feels better already, though I'm dizzy from the pain and my mouth is watering like crazy.
I take a moment, holding my dizzy head, trying not to look at the bright ball of fire that is the sun streaming up the sky. I've got such a headache.
Pouring myself a glass of water, I try for a sip but my stomach rolls with queasiness. I don't think I've ever felt such a vast collection of overwhelming sensations in one sitting before.
Needing to rest, I grab my phone from the kitchen side, for if Maksim calls, and I crawl back into bed, my mind still empty of thoughts.
I sleep the day away, occasionally stirring to screams that I recognize as my own; screams that wrack my body with panic and pain. I don't remember any dreams, thankfully—I can't deal with anything more fucking with my head right now. I need to get over what Maksim has done to me.
It's midday when I open my eyes again, the sun burning high in the sky, streaming in. Every limb I have feels heavy and tight and my ass is so sore it's almost unbearable.
There's a text message on my phone from James. He wants to know why I didn't stay with Charlie; wants to know if I'm alright, why I'm not working. I can't even manage a smile about the fact that he cares. I'm too empty.
Pushing the duvet back so I can get up, I grimace, my hips feeling like they've ceased up. When is the pain going to end?
In my grasp, the sheets are wet and heavy. I glance over my bed. The white sheets are covered in streaks of dark red blood. My back must've been bleeding while I slept.
The notion doesn't bother me. Nothing seems to be bothering me. Yeah I'm in pain, and that's overwhelming, but inside, I'm so... numb. It's been a long, long time since Maksim gave me a hiding like that, and I'd usually be sad with guilt for pissing him off so furiously, but not this time. This time I'm just emotionally numb.
My throat is raw. I limp to the kitchen for some water, which doesn't make me feel sick this time. I also try to eat a bowl of cereal, barely registering the fact that there's fresh milk and food in the fridge. Hovering over the bowl, elbows on the countertop, I manage a few mouthfuls of cornflakes but I'm just not hungry. I'm in too much pain to do anything other than sleep.
I use the toilet, heaving at the sight of blood on the tissue, then I slip back into bed and rest for two days without showering.
Day five: the bite mark on my arm is scabbing over. I can feel the scabs rubbing against the bandage every time I move. Lying in bed, I unwind the bandage to let the wound air so it can heal better. I drop the bandage on the floor. Twenty puncture marks I count on my forearm, each one red around the edges and a bit itchy. I try my best not to scratch the wound but it's difficult, like an itch you can't quite reach.
Slugging it out of bed, I use the toilet and manage a full bowl of cereal today, though only because I need to eat—I need to regain my strength if I'm to heal—then I'm back in bed.
Day six: I attempt a shower but the welts and cuts on my body are so sore that evenIcan't bear the pain. I turn off the faucet, then I shrug into a pair of sports shorts and a t-shirt, and I curl up on the couch, watching the sun rise over London with burning orange rays.
Still, I feel nothing. It's so strange. I don't know what's happened to me. It's like, before this moment I'm in right now, nothing exists.
I float in and out of a dark slumber.
