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brUISES FADE BUT THE STORIES THEY TELL LINGER

T he Past

Lawyer: So, you’re accusing my client of raping you. And part of that evidence is the bruises on your body. Is that correct?

Me: Yes.

Lawyer: And you moved a week before, right?

Me: That’s correct.

Lawyer: But, as a redhead with pale skin, would you say you bruise easily?

Me: Not really… I haven’t noticed that before.

Lawyer: It’s well known that people with your complexion bruise easily.

Me: …

Lawyer: So, given that, isn’t it more likely that the bruises were caused by the fact you moved heavy boxes, rather than the allegations you’ve made against my client?

Me: I didn’t rip my vagina and my anus when I moved boxes, no.

The Present

A day or two go by, relatively uneventful. Timmy’s phone stays quiet. Good, finally she maybe got the hint and will stop intruding on us.

But now, here I am, staring at my left arm, covered in splotches of gray and purple. My entire upper arm looks like I just got out of a paintball fight I never signed up for. I trace my fingers along the tender skin, wincing. It looks like someone grabbed me and squeezed hard—like the bruises on my legs from all those years ago.

Timmy, lounging on the bed, laughs. “Haha, I’ve been poking you so much to get your attention I’ve left bruises on you.”

I force a smile, though my stomach twists uncomfortably. It’s fine, I tell myself. I know I bruise easily. It’s nothing.

But the sight of the bruises tugs at something deep inside, like a loose thread unraveling a tightly woven fabric. The memories I’ve worked so hard to suppress start clawing their way to the surface. My mind drifts back to those awful photos—evidence taken after the assault. I remember the ugly purple and gray marks on my legs, the ones the lawyer tried to explain away with his slick words about moving boxes and pale skin. These bruises don’t look so different, I realize, my pulse quickening.

But this is completely different. Right?

My PTSD is just making me correlate two completely separate things. Timmy didn’t hurt me. He was just being playful—excited, even. He was showing me the Cay, poking me to get my attention, sharing his joy. That’s not abuse. It’s… affection. Isn’t it? It was just poking .

Timmy catches me staring at the marks on my arm. “Aw, babe,” he says, his grin widening. “I really didn’t mean to bruise you up so bad. I forget how strong I am sometimes. I’ll try to be gentler.”

He reaches out and strokes my arm lightly, as if that erases the purples and blues blooming under my skin. “I would never hurt you on purpose,” he says softly, brushing my hair behind my ear. His eyes, wide and sincere, make me want to believe him. This is just how he shows love and enthusiasm.

I laugh, though it feels brittle in my throat. “Just maybe don’t do it so hard next time, okay?”

“Deal,” he says, still smiling. “I mean, I wanted a redhead with creamy, milky white skin and freckles. I didn’t know you’d bruise like a banana,” he teases, and before I can stop him, he pokes the exact same spot again.

It’s playful—it’s supposed to be playful. But the poke lands heavier this time, like a little jab to my soul.

The room feels different now, like the air has thickened with something I can’t quite name.

My laughter dies in my throat, and I shift uncomfortably. The playful moment has turned into something else entirely, though I can’t quite explain why.

He grins, as if he doesn’t notice the shift—or worse, as if he does notice, and finds it amusing.

I try to laugh it off again, but my voice sounds strange to my own ears. The discomfort lingers, curling deep inside my chest like a coiled spring ready to snap. I tell myself it’s nothing. He’s not hurting me. He’s just playing around.

But the flashbacks won’t stop. I see the lawyer’s smug face in my mind, the disbelief in his eyes as he tried to make my pain seem insignificant. I remember how easily the truth was twisted back then, how I was made to feel like I had overreacted.

And now, standing here, staring at my bruised arm, I can’t help but wonder— am I doing it again?

I brush the thought away, force a smile back onto my face. Timmy means well. He loves me. He’s not like the others .

But the atmosphere in the room stays heavy, and the little knot in my stomach twists tighter. Because deep down, a quiet voice whispers: This isn’t okay. This doesn’t feel right. And it’s a precursor to something that’s going to be much worse.