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I was on autopilot when I rose to my feet, stumbling to my bathroom. I couldn’t close the door since he removed it from the hinges when I locked him out last night. I removed my shirt and bra, the only clothing I had worn since last night, and stepped under the hot spray.
I winced as the water hit the scratches all over me, and I scrubbed myself raw, wanting to get rid of every trace of him on my skin and in my hair. I wanted to remove him from myself forever. I’d wash multiple times a day if that’s what it took.
I half wished this water would drown me so the pain would be over and he could never hurt me again.
“That’s long enough,” Mark called. “Don’t get dressed; you won’t need clothes for a while.”
I winced at his words but didn’t have any clothes in the bathroom anyway. I turned off the shower, looking for anything I could use as a weapon. But I barely had anything when I moved in, and the most dangerous object in this room was my toothbrush.
I wrapped a towel around myself, wishing I had at least a robe to cover up with. I didn’t want Mark to ever see an inch of my skin again; he didn’t deserve to.
“Come out, bitch,” he yelled.
Maybe if I stayed here, he’d yell loudly enough for someone to hear and—
A knock sounded on my front door.
“Who the fuck is that?” Mark snapped, rounding on me in the bathroom.
I shrugged, my voice still raw and aching.
“Go find out,” he snarled, gripping my arm as he dragged me down the stairs. “If you say a fucking word, I’ll blow your brains out, and theirs too.”
I reached for the lock—
“No,” he ordered. “They’ll see your fucking face. Talk through the door, don’t open it.”
I peeked through the eyehole, and my heart sank.
It was Marta.
“Go away,” I urged, my voice broken.
“Are you okay, Amara? You don’t sound so good,” she frowned.
“Laryngitis,” I lied, my voice squeaky and uneven. “I’ll come back to work when I’m better.”
“What about your client? What should I tell them?” Marta wondered, her eyes darting around. Did she know that I was in danger? Did Marta suspect anything? I prayed she did.
“Tell him I’ll see himsoon,” I replied as cold steel pressed against my temple. “Call him and tell him that.”
“Okay,” Marta conceded, holding up four fingers and closing them in a fist, the universal symbol for domestic violence.
“Yes,” I replied.
“I’ll get help,” she mouthed before scurrying back into the street.
“She seems in an awful hurry,” Mark tsked, unlocking the door and yanking it open. “I fucking warned you, bitch.”
Then he shot his gun.
My scream was silent with my lack of a voice as Marta fell to the ground, and Mark dragged me back inside. He locked the door again, holding me in a headlock as he walked back up the stairs with me.
I couldn’t breathe. I felt the blood rush to my face as my lungs burned, trying desperately to draw in breath. My vision blurred, and my body went slack.
“Time to hide the body,” he laughed. “But don’t worry, I’ll be back for you soon.”
Then I was out.