"Are you sure you can't get Cliff to switch rotations with you?"

"Positive. Listen ... babe, I really should get going. Can we reschedule this for next weekend? I promise I'll make it up to you."

I've been promising to take her to her favorite restaurant for the past month, but my residency is nearing its end and my rotations are brutal.

"I guess. But you'll really have to do something special to make up for it." She giggles, a hint of seduction in her tone. That gets my attention, and I immediately stop what I'm doing and focus on the conversation.

"Is that a purr I hear in your voice?" She laughs, and it brings a smile to my face. Her laughter causes my heart to do funny things. "I do believe you purred, Ms. Scott." She laughs even louder, carefree and full of joy. My smile stretches the width of my face. Sophia is the light of my life, and hearing her laugh and cut up with me reminds me of how lucky I am to have someone so special.

"Maybe it was. Maybe ... just maybe, I'm thinking of how you can make it up to me. And maybe that thought started with dinner but ended somewhere completely different."

I chuckle. "I'm liking where this is going. Go on." I take a seat in the corner chair of the doctor’s lounge and focus on her every word.

"I'm thinking that I'll wear something red. Something with silk and lace and little bows over the tops of my thighs." She definitely purrs, and it's all I can do to fight the urge to go home and strip her naked and have my wicked way with her.

"And then?" I ask, my words a raspy whisper.

"Then you sit down on the edge of the bed so I can straddle your thighs. And when my lips are close enough to brush up against yours, I push you onto your back." Her voice takes on a desirous pitch. All husky and laced with unspent lust.

I clear my throat and adjust the raging erection bulging beneath my scrubs. A quick glance around the lounge affirms that I'm all alone so I decide to press her to the very edge of her comfort zone.

"And then what? Tell me exactly what happens next. I want to hear it. Word. For . Word." I lean forward and brace my forearms against my knees. "Tell me, my beautiful wife, what happens next?"

I can picture her swallowing down her discomfort and franticly trying to embrace the seductress she's painted herself as in this little scenario we're imagining together. Sophia has never been one to take the lead in the bedroom, but I'm certainly all for it if she's willing to try.

She laughs softly. "And then ...”

CRASH!

The sound of steel crunching, glass breaking, and Sophia's ear piercing scream bursts through the speaker of my phone.

I jump to my feet, instantly alert. "Sophia? Sophia! Sophia—answer me baby. Please answer me," I yell into the phone. But the only sound I hear is the silence on the other end.

My.

Heart.

Stalls.

My lungs exhale, and my body begins to sink into a space of mind-numbing paralysis.

The sound of the emergency on-road service comes through the speaker, and I hear them say that they've dispatched the police and EMS to the scene.

I call out Sophia's name for what seems like forever, but the line begins to break up before it eventually cuts off altogether.

I pace the floor. When I redial her number, it only kicks straight to voicemail. Then a minute later, her road safety service number pops up on my screen.

In a rattled haze, I answer. "Hello? Sophia?"

"Sir, this is officer Kent. Your road safety service alerted us to an accident on Bellevue Avenue. The accident involved a Caucasian female driving a blue Mercedes Benz and a Caucasian male driving a white Chevy Trailblazer. I'm the first responder."

"My wife ... please tell me she's all right. Her name is Sophia. Please tell me she's all right."

A rustling sound cuts through the speaker, and then I hear him breathing heavily as if he's struggling to move something, or someone.

"Sir, she's unresponsive. My partner is administering first aid until the EMS arrives. I need to check her vitals. Hang on."

I can hear him in the background calling out Sophia's name and trying to rouse her.

Minutes seem like hours before he's finally back on the phone. "Sir, the EMS are loading her up now. They'll be taking her to Chicago Med ER. Please meet them there." Before I can ask any more questions, he cuts in. "I'm sorry sir, but it doesn't look good. She's in bad shape. Hurry."

I listen as the sound of sirens grow fainter and the commotion of police officers working the scene takes over.

I don't want to hang up. Even though I know she's no longer in the car, it feels like if I hang up, I'll be letting her go. In more ways than one.

Eventually, the line goes dead. I don't know how long I sit there before my rational side kicks in and I rush to the ER to meet the ambulance. But no amount of medical training could prepare me for what I'm about to see.

* * *

I blot the blood from my busted lip as carefully as I can. The water stings and the cut hurts like hell. I don't know what came over me. I knew better than to say something.

“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid,” I say to myself as I try not to look at the girl staring back at me.

I hiss when the alcohol swab meets the cut above my brow and accidentally bite my busted lip to keep from screaming out.

The warm, metallic liquid coats my tongue. I quickly release the hold on my lip, but it doesn't help; it continues to bleed. Crimson drops fall into the sink as I lean on my tiptoes, trying to get a closer look at my injuries in the mirror.

The sight that greets me is one that I'm all too familiar with.

I stare ... taking in the hues of black, purple, and deep blue around my left eye and the left corner of my mouth. My eye is swollen shut, and the eyelid is solid black. With a shaking hand, I reach up and touch it as gently as I can, the tips of my fingers skating over its puffiness. Slowly, and as softly as I can, I pull down on my eyelid so that I can see the cut that starts at the top of the lid and goes through my brow.

"Ssshhhh ..." I hiss as the pain lances across the entire left side of my face like a hot blade piercing my skin. Leaning forward against the sink, I get a better look at the damage he's inflicted.

It's deep and long, but luckily enough, it's not very wide, so it won't likely leave a bad scar. I step back and reach under the sink into the cabinet to pull out the tub of antiseptic swabs my friend Sarah gave me. It's her grandmother’s secret recipe for all things hurt and aching. I've used it in the past, and it works small miracles on cuts and bruises.

Maybe if I stopped trying to heal the wounds he inflicted and became ugly, he'd leave me and I'd finally be free.

But if I allowed him to take the one thing that I cherish most away from me, I'd lose myself forever. I'm not a vain person, but ever since I was a little girl, everyone has always told me how I looked just like my mother. Right down to my dual-colored eyes—one green and one blue.

My mother was an unconventional beauty, and if everyone says I look just like her, then that's something that I refuse to allow him to mark up with hideous scars. It may sound crazy, but when I look at myself, I sometimes see her staring back at me. Some days I'll just sit and stare in the mirror, seeking her advice from the great beyond. But not tonight ... no, tonight, I'm ashamed of who I see staring back at me.

The reflection gazing back at me with one eye swollen shut and the other red and puffy from shedding one too many tears––that's not me. That's a stranger who lets a monster take her body against her will and inflict pain upon her soul with every punch, kick, and degrading word he spews. That's definitely NOT me.

I shake my head, disgusted with the vision before me. I'm surprised he went for the face this time. He usually avoids the face. He doesn't like his friends to see me marked up, and he absolutely sucks at making up excuses as to why his wife is perpetually clumsy and falling into stationary objects.

I spend another thirty minutes in the bathroom before I've finally cleaned and medicated every cut, scratch, and bruise from tonight’s incident. I could lie and tell myself that he'll stop, but I stopped believing that a while ago. If Jay’s good at one thing, it's keeping a promise. And he promised me that if I ever tried to leave him, he'd kill me. Hence, tonight’s altercation. I don’t know why I thought I could get away. I should have known better. Should’ve planned better. Been more secretive. Been smarter.

After tonight’s beating, I have no doubt he’ll follow through on the very promise that has held me hostage all these years. No doubt at all.

It's that very thought that has paralyzed my courage over the years. But I took a chance tonight––and failed.

I know it’s only a matter of time before I conjure up the will to defy him again. After all, the thought of escaping is the only thing that keeps me sane these days. The dream of being free from this town and everything that has sucked the life from me. My father. My past. All I want is a chance at a future with a semblance of happiness.

His voice from the other room echoes down the hall as he calls out for me. I cringe but move toward the living room where I know he's going to tell me how sorry he is. That I made him do what he did. How I shouldn't make him that angry and how I know better than to taunt him after he's worked hard all day. And then he’ll start with the guilt trip––I know how much he loves me, and that it would absolutely devastate him if I ever left him. How he can’t live without me.

It's always my fault.