Bleeding Hearts

3

Chapter Three

March 6, 2015

When I open my eyes, the first thing I notice are the plain, white walls of my neighbor's apartment. I swear everything that happened last night was a dream, but the feel of Isaac's leather sofa under my skin brings the memory flooding back ... the blood. The screaming. The gunshot ringing in my ears. Pulling the blanket up over my shoulder, I groan from the pain in my arms.

"Cami?" Isaac calls from the next room. I sit upright on the couch and pull my legs to my chest, careful to cover up any exposed flesh. He walks into the living room carrying a blue towel and a set of folded clothes.

"I brought you some clean clothes. I thought you might like a shower."

"Thanks," I say. My voice is hoarse, sore. Every inch of my body aches. I went through a lot last night. There's still doubt in my mind on how I managed to survive.

"I'm going to make some eggs. Do you want some?" he asks as he sets down the fresh supplies on the end table.

I heard him late last night, washing his dirty dishes. He also made certain there were no sharp utensils lying around. I'm sure he was just thinking of his own safety.

"Please." I assume I can keep a couple of eggs down.

"The bathroom is just through the bedroom. Use whatever you need," he says.

I nod my head in response.

As soon as he disappears into the kitchen, I push myself off the couch, gather the things Isaac left for me, and walk unsteadily into his bedroom. He offered to let me take the bedroom last night, but I couldn't bear sleeping in a stranger's bed. Not when my own bed reminded me of my terror.

His sheets are disheveled like they were simply thrown on the mattress. There is one small dresser along the back wall, a large black box sitting on top. The walls are plain; the single nightstand by his bed holds a watch and a set of cufflinks. Isaac's apartment seems so empty, so lonely.

The white ceramic floor tiles, so cold under my feet, are plain, and the countertop is close to bare. There's plenty of space for me to lean on while I stare into the mirror. My skin is still dark and blotchy with bruises; the light that my eyes once held is no longer present; they're as vacant as this room.

I start the shower. As the water gets hot and sprays against the clear shower curtain, I slip in from the back. The moment the water touches my skin, dried blood washes down and coats the bottom of the tub; the water turns bright red as it circles the drain. The memories of my wounds, all of my wounds, become fresh. Tears spring to my eyes just thinking about what happened.

Why did he do it? I thought he loved me. I feel my heart crumble at the realization that the only man I've ever loved tried to kill me. Clutching my chest, I claw at my bruised skin until I bleed again.

Is this what I deserve?

Uncontrollable panic rakes through my body and I sink, gasping, into the pink water at the bottom of the tub. I hold my knees close and rock back and forth. The warmth from my curled up body and the shower does nothing to soothe the colossal ache inside my chest. I just can't believe it. He tried to kill me. My body shakes as I attempt to contain the emotional upheaval, but the first taste of salt water is my breaking point. Suddenly, I'm yelling, sobbing out loud in anger, sorrow, and more than anything, for my lost love. I don't care how loud I am—I'm sure Isaac can hear me in the other room.

The weeping at last subsides. My head is pounding. After several long minutes of sitting there, mired in self-pity, I gather myself up and scrub my body until there is not one inch of my skin that hasn't been rubbed raw. I step out and dry off, then climb into Isaac's clothes. They are far too big for me, but I wouldn't dream of complaining after all he's done.