Page 17 of Toxic
“What did you say to me?” He rounds the island and stands threateningly close tomyback.
My fingers still over the cookie sheet where I am spreading out biscuits for the oven. I look up and nearly laugh at the expression on Vic’s face. His complexion is mottled red. Sweat beads at his temples, and his lower lip quivers. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s almost enjoying the possibility of a confrontation. The very thought makes me sick to my stomach.Fear has been a constant, if unwelcome,companion.
Untilnow.
Vic’s hand convulses where he grips the counter, and his knuckles are petal-white where they’ve split and healed several times over. Those hands are frequent stars of my nightmares. All he used to have to do was raise them, even only infinitesimally, and I’d immediately submit to him. I’d shrink back in panic like the timid little mouse Gracin accuses me ofbeing.
Today, however, even seeing his hands flex threateningly, I’m not afraid. It’s as though my emotions are wrapped in cotton and experienced through aglasscase.
If I were honest with myself, I would admit this snap has been a long time coming. The abuse, both emotional and physical, was too much. The sense of isolation and desolation toostark.
There’s only so much one person can take, and this morning tipped thescale.
It isn’t even because of Gracin. He’s a symptom of a much larger problem. Maybe I went to his arms to force this confrontation. To put an end toitall.
He ismyruin.
I had to reach rock bottom to see awayout.
The knife glints in the yellow halo of light from the kitchen fixture overhead. When I look up, Vic is watching me with his beady, snake-like eyes. We both know what’scoming.
The next daybegins like any other. I wake and shower, taking extra care with my appearance. I even use the sugar scrub one of the other nurses had re-gifted me last Christmas. I wrap myself in one of Vic’s big luxurious towels and slather on lavender scented lotion and apply makeup with a heavier hand to cover the shadows under my eyes and the gauntness in mycheeks.
After hopping into the requisite pair of scrubs, I skirt around the mess left over from dinner in the kitchen and throw together a quick smoothie for breakfast. Out of habit, I retrieve the newspaper from the front stoop and place it on the kitchen table. I don’t think about why I do it as I grab my keys and purse and hop intomycar.
Not thinking has apparently become my default setting to deal with all my problems. But everything is so phenomenally fucked, to deal with them would mean facing all the horrible decisions I’ve made lately, which I’m just not readytodo.
Nope.
So, I drive to work and pretend it’s like anyotherday.
I pretend as if my marriage isn’t a sham. That I didn’t fuck up my life the day I married the first man who’d ever made me feel special. That I didn’t stay in the marriage because I had nowhere else to go. My thoughts stutter to a stop there because I very nearly thought the name of the person who has probably screwed me up even worse than my sucktastichusband.
Ernie doesn’t even faze me as he tries looking down my shirt when I hand him my badge. He’s a small fish on my list of shit to worry about. I even flash him a slightly deranged smile that has his leer freezing on his face as I retake my badge andspeedaway.
My car skids on the gray slush in the parking lot as I come to a haphazard stop, the nose of my car kissing a snowdrift. But I don’t think about that, either. My back end is six inches into the neighboring parking space, but I don’t haul my butt back tofixit.
I make it to the infirmary without incident and plan to spend the next eight hours focused one hundred percent on paperwork and patients, minus one, who has the day off after his scuffle to recuperate andrelax.
One of the nameless, faceless men sits on the hospital bed trying not to grimace as I search, fruitlessly, for a vein to tap for a blood sample. It’s something I’ve done a thousand times, but for the life of me, my stubborn fingers won’tcooperate.
“I’m sorry,” I say, again. “Let’s try yourotherarm.”
He grumbles underneath his breath as I round the bed to his other side. I doubt he wants me to prick him five more times and still end up without the goods, but I’m determined to keep the cheerful smile on my face and pretend like I’m focused. Two more stabs and I hit pay dirt. Relief floods the inmate’s expression, and I take his blood sample, record his information, and send him on his way. He shoots daggers at me and grumbles about suing the prison as he shuffles away and I slide into my deskchair.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a blurry outline of an inmate’s blue jumpsuit, and even though I’d been telling myself all day not to think about him, not to remember the horrible thing I’d done, I can’thelpit.
The more I try not to think about him, the more my brain focuses on him. Like an itch that I can’t reach but am dying toscratch.
I squirm in my seat as I try to refocus on paperwork, but it’s useless. For two hours, the words swim and dance in front of my eyes. I’ve read the same line at least ten times and still don’t understand it. When the other nurse on duty sends me a dirty look because I keep letting out deep sighs, Igiveup.
I would say sorry. Normally, I’m a very solicitous co-worker. I come in, do my job with very little fanfare, and go home. Perfect little girl, that’s me. Vic has trainedmewell.
Frustration and rage bubble underneath my skin and I roll my shoulders as I stride to my locker to retrieve my lunch. Even thinking Vic's name makes me want to tear into something with my bare hands. I have to lean my forehead against my locker to cool my heatedflesh.
“Nurse Emerson,” says a voice from behind me, causing me to knock my head against the metallocker.
I turn, holding a hand to the offending spot, and glower at the officer who’s smilingapologetically.