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“You can’t get a divorce,” he spat. “I have proof you were cheating on me, too.”
I laughed. “I never even looked at another man, though maybe I should’ve.”
“Then what are these?” he snapped, pulling a shoebox out of a hidden corner of our closet. He upended the contents on our bed, and my heart sank as I saw the name repeated on all the envelopes.
Lorenzo Ricci.
So he never stopped writing me, after all. My jealous piece-of-shit husband kept them, waiting for this day to use them against me as some unfounded proof of infidelity. But Lorenzo’s letters were always platonic, so Mark had nothing on me.
“This just proves you’re a jealous, weak little man,” I shouted. “Those letters were platonic, and you knew it. You have nothing. I’m taking you to the fucking cleaners, you lying, cheating scum.”
He flew at me, and I almost welcomed him. I began forming a plan weeks ago, a plan to leave him. The day I decided to do it, I’d let himhit me just once. Then, I’d call the cops on our house phone, get him arrested, and go to a battered women’s shelter.
I didn’t expect him to punch me so hard that I’d black out.
When I finally came to, it was dark outside. Mark was gone, and I was alone on the hardwood floor of our bedroom. The air still reeked of sex, and I gagged at the memory of catching him here.
I crawled to one of the house phones on the dresser and grasped it, dialing 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?” a voice replied.
“617 Verity Lane, please hurry,” I croaked, my voice hoarse from screaming at Mark to stop hitting me. “My husband beat me. I think I have a concussion.”
“You stay right where you are, ma’am. Is he in the house?” the responder asked.
“No, I think he’s out with his mistress,” I breathed.
“What’s your name?” the voice questioned.
“Amara Branson,” I whispered. “Please…I think I’m gonna pass out. Hurry.”
Blackness dotted my vision as I heard the responder, but I couldn’t understand what she said. They sounded like I was underwater while she spoke to me from the surface. I felt like I was drowning, unable to breathe, as I collapsed.
Please, I begged the universe.Please don’t let me die here like this.
2
Amara
Istartled awake, jolted by the sounds of running footsteps. A searing pain flooded through my skull, and I winced, sitting up and clutching my head. The sound of a code blared over the speakers, worsening my headache as I braced myself on the steel bars of the bed.
I was in the hospital bed with bars, speakers, and wires. Memories of why I was here flooded over me; the 9-1-1 call, the beating, and my blackout. I sobbed at the reminder of finding Mark in bed with someone else. How I had left him and how he damn near tried to make sure I couldn’t.
“You’re awake,” a nurse exclaimed softly as she approached me. “You’ve been out for two days. Your husband has visited nonstop. Poor thing is worried out of his mind. You gave us a scare, but you’ll be alright.”
I immediately looked around warily. I thought I was safe here and that he wouldn’t find me. I was wrong. He was here.
“Whoa, whoa, calm down,” the nurse reassured me, eyeing my heart monitor. “You’re safe, Mrs. Branson. You’re in the hospital. Your husband said you got mugged, and he found you at home like this.”
I shook my head as much as my pain would allow. Did the 9-1-1 operator not understand me? Did they never show up? Was I left there for a day, where Mark found me still unconscious on the floor, and he called an ambulance to cover his ass?
“Keep him away from me,” I whispered to the nurse. “He’s the one—”
“There you are,” Mark cooed, his voice dripping with sarcasm only I could pick up. “I’m so glad you’re up.”
I cringed, inching away from him. I needed to get out of here fast. How could I communicate this to hospital personnel?
“C-can you get me a coffee?” I stammered, not daring to look at Mark.