More than anything, she needed sleep. For fourteen hours, I watched her do nothing but rest while IVs gave her fluids and pain meds. She’s badly beaten, but she’s not broken. Not according to the doctor, but there’s a different kind of brokenness that can go unseen.
A dark bruise rimmed with blue lines her jaw, trailing down her throat and it matches the other ones all over her body. I’m careful, with the sun setting on the second day, as I carry her to my bedroom, letting her rest in a more comfortable place. Slowly stripping away the dirty clothes reveals inch after inch of bruised flesh. Her perfectly caramel skin is tainted with shades of purple.
A whimper slips from her as her neck arches and pain strikes across her face when I pull the last piece, her bra, down her body. “I’m sorry,” I whisper with every ounce of sincerity and I toss the bloodstained garment to the pile on the floor.
She’s still in need of a deep sleep, but her eyes part just slightly and then she blinks, widening them and taking in a sudden breath.
“It’s me,” I say, then raise my hands in the air palms out to her. “It’s just me, little mouse.” I add every bit of comfort I can to my voice as she takes in the room, propped up on her palms with her slim body showing the sharp peaks of her collarbones. Every time I notice another detail of her abuse, anger rises from a simmer to a boil.
Swallowing thickly, I wait for her to look back at me, for her frightened gaze to see me before I tell her, “It’s only me, little mouse. I’ve got you.”
“Marcus.” She whispers my name and the dried cut on her lip cracks open. She winces and I leave her only to get Vaseline from the nightstand. The drawer opening and closing is the only sound filling the room as I carefully dab the balm on her lip.
She watches me and lets me care for her; all the while she’s silent. There’s a look in her amber eyes I’ve yet to see from her. I’m careful as I lift her in my arms. Her own wrap around my neck and I savor the feel of her hit skin against mine.
“Can you stand?”
She hums a quiet confirmation and I set her down on her bare feet toward the back of the shower. I haven’t thought much of my home with its dated bones and barren features, but as I turn the white porcelain knob I consider explaining that it’s safe. It may appear empty and abandoned, but this home is safe. Not a soul is around us for miles and the moment they cross that boundary, I know and the house goes into lockdown mode.
The hot water sprays down, just missing her bare legs as she presses herself against the wall.
It steams quickly and I can barely look at her, her nakedness against the white tile only serving to highlight every beating she took. Sickness stirs in my gut as I reach under the sink for a bar of soap. I lather the bar under the spray, noting she’ll need the medical kit when she’s done.
As I list in my mind everything else that she’ll need, she reaches for the soap, taking it from me and turning away slightly.
“I can help,” I say and she shakes her head at the offer, not looking me in the eye with her lips thinned and a grim look on her battered face.
I struggle to respond other than gathering a fresh towel and shirt from the cellar laundry. I waste no time, not sure what Delilah is thinking and with a million confessions warring to be spoken first.
As I lay the towel and shirt down on the sink for her when she’s out, I don’t hesitate to tell her the thought I’ve had for days now.
“I’ll never forgive myself for letting this happen to you.”
“You can’t control what happens to me,” she says and it’s the first sentiment she’s spoken clearly. Even over the steady stream of the water, I hear her clearly.
My lungs stop, my breath halting. There’s an air about her that’s unforgiving.
Control is all I have to offer her. I’m damn well aware of that just as much as she is. My gaze stays on the side of her face that’s turned to me. It’s unmarred and equally unemotional.