Chapter Nine

Jasmine

 

 

 

 

Everything hurts.

Every movement is like knives stabbing me. My skin burns and my body feels like it’s caged in, like my insides are too small for my body and they want to burst out.

I shouldn’t have gone back. I should have known how bad it would be. I barely got his name out before he hit me, the force sending me crashing to the ground. I remember parts after that, but it’s like watching them on a broken movie reel: it keeps skipping and jumping and the sound is all distorted. He landed blow after blow, my screams and pleas making no difference. Gradually, as my body fought to protect itself, each hit hurt less and less. The sensation of drifting out of my body was a strange one, but a welcome relief. I wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t.

When Cutter showed up I thought I was dreaming. I never thought I’d be so pleased to see savagery in someone’s eyes. He saved me, swooping in and making it so Dylan couldn’t hurt me anymore. I’ve never had anyone stop Dylan before.

I know it is all my fault—why he gets so angry. He just gets frustrated, that’s all. I can’t be what he wants. I can’t do anything right and he feels the need to punish me. If I were stronger—better at being a wife—our relationship might not have been what it was.

I open my eyes to unfamiliar surroundings. My first instinct is to panic and my eyes dart around the room, looking for Dylan. When I find no trace of him, I push myself up onto my elbows, crying out and looking down to see purple bruises creeping up my arms. I stretch out my arm, testing for broken bones and finding none, but knowing that physical breaks are not the ones that hurt the most.

Physical breaks heal.

My soul is shattered, and I’m not sure there is a doctor alive who can heal it.

I try to remember what happened last night. I gasp realizing where I must be.

Cutter’s.

He took me to his house? I look down and see an unfamiliar pair of sweatpants and an over-sized T-shirt, both engulfing my bird-like body. He gave me clothes to wear. That means that he undressed me. He would have seen me naked. Seen the bruises, wide and round like Dylan’s fists. I ease up the hem of the T-shirt and tears spill from my eyes when I see the dried blood coating my colorless skin.

A feeling of uneasiness rolls through me. He’s going to come for me. He will be livid that I left the house; that I left him. My limbs start to shake as my mind imagines everything that he might do.

“Don’t be scared.”

I hear his voice but I can’t see him anywhere. I sit up in the bed and wince as my abused muscles fight to work. Through the shadows, something moves and I see a figure in the corner of the room, sitting in a chair. I squint, an ache shooting up the right side of my face, and see Cutter. He’s changed his clothes. Relief sweeps through me. I didn’t want to have to look at him with Dylan’s blood dried into his shirt. It was enough seeing the images when I closed my eyes, but to be confronted with them in real life . . .

“You . . . you have to take me back.”

I’m barely able to get the words out. My lips are swollen, making it hard to say certain letters, and the split in my lower lip threatens to burst open with every vowel sound. There is no doubt in my mind that Cutter was just trying to help me, but that doesn’t stop the fear that gnaws away at my insides knowing that he has just made everything so much worse.

“No.” His voice is strong but not menacing. He stays in his seat and eyes me warily as he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. The movements are slow and he maintains eye contact the whole time, as if he’s afraid I’ll bolt if he moves too quickly.

“I have to go back. He’ll come get me anyway. You don't under—”

"You are not going back to that house. It isn't safe, and now that I know what that asshole does to you, if I see him again I will kill him. You've been through a lot, Jasmine. Try to get some more sleep."

With that, he stands up and light streams into the room as the door opens briefly, the latch clicking as it closes softly behind him. I take a deep shaky breath.

I’m not going back?

He wants me to leave Dylan? What would I do? I’ve been with him for so long that the thought of being alone is terrifying. I’m not stupid. I know I wasn't safe with him. I just . . .

I don't know what I will do without him.

I lie back in the bed, the soft cotton of the sheet cool against my burning skin. I try to fall asleep but so many thoughts are racing through my head, I know there is no way I will. This isn't going to work the way Cutter thinks it will. He might think that he can save me, but he can't. He doesn't realize that I caused what happened to me.

It’s my fault.

Sunlight peeks through the slats in the blinds. I think of all the times in the past where I’ve wanted to stay in bed for fear of doing more damage to my body, but remind myself that that’s just my mind’s way of justifying lazy behavior. The effort it takes to swing my legs over the edge of the bed leaves me lightheaded and I have to grasp the bedside table to keep myself from falling.

My eyes drop to the bedsheet and I’m mortified to see streaks of dried blood everywhere. I twist my body, biting my sore lip to keep from crying out as I begin to pull the cover off, searing fiery heat pulsating around the split as I slowly inch the dirty sheets off the bed, bundling them up against my chest. My brow is soaked with sweat and as I move toward the door a sharp pain lances through my skull, colorful spots dancing in front of my eyes. I feel every inch the beaten wife, my misdemeanors on display for everyone to see, and for me to remember. With each jarring step across the room the pain intensifies, my muscles quivering with the effort of keeping me upright, blackness encroaching on my vision as I fight to remain conscious.

Taking a deep breath, I stand up once more holding onto the bed frame for support. I make my way to the door and see the laundry room right across from me. I place the dirty sheets in the washer and add some detergent before going out into the living room. My feet take small careful steps, each one increasing my anxiety. I have to convince Cutter to let me go. The longer I stay, the more danger both of us are in.

The worn carpet of the hallway leads me out into a bright living space, where I find Cutter pacing back and forth, a phone tucked between his ear and shoulder. When he sees me his brow furrows in confusion.

He nods toward a beaten up but comfortable looking leather couch and I make my way over and sit down. He holds up two fingers and then flattens his palm before leaving the room. After a couple minutes, he reappears in front of me.

“Why aren’t you sleeping? You need to rest.”

My words catch in my throat. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. What if I say the wrong thing? I know my limits and what to expect with Dylan, but Cutter is a complete unknown.

"I couldn't fall back asleep," I whisper, so low that when he doesn’t immediately answer, I question if he heard me.

When his rough hand cups my cheek, my first instinct is to pull away. Soft touches like this are usually followed by a knock or a fall. I look up at him, pulling myself inward, making myself as small as possible.

"I have to go to the clubhouse. It won't be more than a few hours, but I want you to stay here. Make yourself at home. I'll be back soon." He waits for a moment to make sure I’ve heard him. I nod once. The things I need to say to him can wait for him to do whatever he needs to.

He’s halfway to the door when he turns back to me and his mouth opens as if he's about to say something. I wait, drawing shallow breaths in through my nose. It’s the only way to keep my lungs from burning. To stop the knives that attack my ribs with each inhale.

The sound of the door closing reverberates all around me and Cutter is gone.

I’m alone.

In his house.

Will Dylan find me here? A part of me feels like he will show up any minute and make me pay for this. Fear seizes every inch of my body as his face invades my mind. I move slowly around the room, closing the blinds, locking the door behind Cutter, turning and slowly sliding down the solid frame until my legs are tucked up underneath me.

From this angle I’m able to see parts of the room. I don’t know what I expected of Cutter, but the place is extraordinarily neat. DVDs are stacked in a bookcase which matches the entertainment unit and the coffee table. The remotes for the huge television have their place on the armrest of the recliner, and the throw pillows on the couch match the blanket folded up on the ottoman.

It’s while I continue my perusal of Cutter’s living space that I realize I have no idea what to do. A groan from my stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten since lunchtime yesterday. I stand up unsteadily and make my way into the kitchen, the cold tile sending shivers up my body.

The refrigerator is stocked with food. I stand there and look at it, not knowing what I'm allowed to have. He said to make myself at home, but home had rules, guidelines. I reach for a piece of fruit but withdraw my hand. What if I'm not supposed to be eating that? What if I eat all the food he wants and he gets mad when he gets home? I close the door, deciding against eating right now.

Cutter’s shirt sticks to my skin. I could really use a shower to help wash away everything that happened last night. I go to the bathroom, the shooting pain in my side making me take small careful steps. I am about to get undressed when I again realize I have no idea what I am allowed to use or do. Are there certain towels that are off limits? Would he mind if I wore more of his clothes after the shower?

In this house, everything is a guessing game. Over the years I’ve been conditioned to believe that the unknown is always something dangerous. I haven't made a single decision in years. I always knew what was expected; what was not allowed. Being here? Not having that structure? I’m completely lost.

I go back into the living room and curl up on the couch.

I’m fine here.

I’m allowed to be here.

He won’t find me here.

I repeat that phrase over and over, until I fall asleep.