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Almost deathly arrogant.
There was no such thing as preparedness for being assaulted.
Especially not while in the apartment I considered a sanctuary, even though I barely spent any time in it. I had paidan exorbitant amount for it, it was secure, with a doorman, with cameras, codes, locks, alarms.
I opened my door dressed in sweats, no makeup on, no knife at my thigh, just a fist plowing into my face.
And I didn’t fight back. I couldn’t.
I fell backward, allowing him to storm inside, closing and locking the door behind him. My ears were ringing, my eyes filling with tears as I struggled to comprehend what was happening.
I smelled him. He wore expensive aftershave, but the bitter, rancid scent of his sweat overpowered it.
Then my blood. I hadn’t thought blood had a smell. Maybe it didn’t. But to me, it tasted like copper and smelled of iron and pennies.
The pain registered after the second punch. That one was to my midsection. In hindsight, it was likely to ensure that I couldn’t recover enough to fight back. He was large, the man. I didn’t initially take in any of his features beyond his sheer size.
I’d bet he put all of his strength into the punch to my midsection. The pain of it made tears spill from my eyes, made my organs scrunch. The agony exploded in my stomach, powerful to the point where I was sure there had to be internal bleeding.
It was the violence that shocked me.
And there was plenty more violence to come. Fists. Kicks. Rough hands tearing at my clothes. Violation so personal, so intimate it tore at what remained of my soul.
The beating was one thing. Tearing my skin with his rings. Breaking my fingers. It made me feel small, weak. But didn’t take away my power. Not entirely.
Not until he raped me.
My surprise rapidly gave way to a grim resignation. I didn’t leave my body, go somewhere else like some victims ofassault said they did. I was there the whole time, forcing myself to be present every second until he left me naked on the floor in a pool of my own blood.
I’d eventually pulled myself off that floor. Put broken fingers back into place, stitched together my torn skin with a sewing kit. I’d chewed on valium, painkillers and compartmentalized. I'd ignored the need to call someone, anyone for help. Ignored the desperation to call my father, feel safe in his arms, go running home.
There was no going home for me.
There was only forward.
Only war.
I was in that apartment one second, yet in the next, I was in Elliot’s living room, with him across from me. I swallowed thickly, trying to rid the taste of blood from my mouth. I silently reminded myself it was not from any kind of physical harm, just what my brain conjured up when it was presented with trauma it didn’t know how to process.
I forced myself to take slow, deep, calming breaths. My hands didn’t shake. My eyes didn’t well with tears. Though I’d been lost in the memory ofthe event, I was fairly certain that my cadence didn’t change, and my voice had been even, strong. No hiccups, no sobs, nothing to substantiate just how whollythe eventhad decimated my insides.
I’d been staring Elliot in the face, but I hadn’t seen him, not really. My rapid heartbeat was the only thing that betrayed my fear of looking into his eyes and seeing how he looked at me after everything I said.
“I’m not a victim.” Despite my best efforts, there was a very slight rasp to my voice. “I made my bed.” I let out an ugly laughthat hurt to produce. I thought of one thousand-dollar sheets stained with my blood and tears.
I walked to his kitchen, putting the breakfast bar between us because I needed a barrier of some kind.
“I deserved what I got.” I dragged my palm along the edge of the island. “No woman deserves assault on the basis of anything from her clothing, sexual promiscuity, drinks consumed, etcetera. But I think it gets a little gray when the woman in question was making millions from the subjugation of thousands of others, from their deaths, their pain.” I said all of this without wincing, without the shame that I’d accepted I’d never wash off. I deserved to live with that. Just like I had deserved that assault. To shock me out of my greed, to admit who I had been dealing with. Who I had become.
To his credit, Elliot had kept a rather placid look on his usually expressive face, yet it was now contorted in horror.
A little delayed but appropriate given what I told him. He should’ve been looking at me that way, given what I’d told him. It was what I’d intended, I told myself through the cracking agony piercing my chest cavity.
My middle finger throbbed, the one that had been dislocated that day, my mouth again filling with the taste of iron. I ignored both.
“You think you deservedthat?” Elliot choked out, the words dripping with pain.
I nodded slowly. “There are consequences to actions, Elliot. I am no damsel in distress here. I was colluding with the villains. I was not innocent.”