No chance.
His booted foot slams into my back, the momentum sending me forward and skidding across the marble floor, chafing the bare skin of my stomach. I rise only as far as my elbows. I try to drag myself up, but that boot connects with my ribs, forcing all the air from my body. Doubled over, I’m shocked when maniacal laughter unspools from my belly. I flip onto my back, meeting his rage head on and with a bedlam smile.
“Now what? The pistol?” I taunt. “That’s the only way you can keep me under your control, right? The big man with the gun? You pitiful coward.”
“A gun?” His own demented grin cracks the polished surface of his face, and we are two witless loons in a death match. “I could kill you with my bare hands.”
With blood smeared on my thighs, bruises blooming on my ribs like African violets, and a new defiance boiling in my bones, I look up through a tangled curtain of hair and say the most reckless words of my life. “Then fight me like a man.”
And he does.
I was there when the levees broke.
Though I was safe in my ward when the monster lost all restraint and unleashed watery havoc on New Orleans, I lived in the city.
I later saw the devastation left in the wake of the beastly storm. We frantically gathered our things, fled our home for higher ground. My family left to survive.
There were those who stayed too long. Remained when they should have fled.
They did not live to regret it.
In this torrent, this chaos of cruelty, I realize I’ve made the same mistake. I’ve remained when I should have fled. Now, I witness the exact moment when this monster loses all restraint. And his fury, his rage rushes at me like a wall of water. Like a gale-force wind, he blows over me, and I am the devastation left in his wake. His fist and his open palm are untiring anvils that bruise my flesh and crack my bones. His fury is swift and efficient, a mesmerizing brutality of syncopated slaps and perfectly spaced blows.
The mind is a master strategist, knowing instinctively when to advance and when to withdraw. My mind is a haven when the pain is beyond bearing. With no escape in sight, I seek the only freedom left to me—my thoughts, my dreams, and my memories. I remember a magical night under the stars, under a streetlight on the eve of greatness. A night filled with laughter and confidences, pregnant with promise. And I see him so clearly, my prince, asking for a kiss.
Sometimes, we stand at a juncture on which our path, our very life can turn. A fork in the road. Sometimes the heart speaks in whispers, and by the time we hear, by the time we listen, it’s too late and we don’t know. We don’t know that we should have turned right instead of left. Chosen one instead of the other. But now, in the retreat of my mind, I know.
And I kiss him.
In my dreams I choose him, my prince, instead of the fraud. In this parallel universe, at this second-chance juncture, I turn right instead of choosing wrong . . . and there, only there, we are together.
But that’s not my universe, not the one I chose. So the world goes black, in a galaxy of pain and brutality, and I see stars. A flash of brilliance. A light I should have acknowledged long ago.
As the stars dim and the darkness encroaches, I understand I’m like those in my ward who stayed too long, assuming their survival. I fear that I, like them, will not live to regret it.
Iris
Light creeps in through one cracked lid. With my awareness comes not only light, but pain. It’s universal, all over, seeming to leave no part of my body untouched. Even my nails ache, but I have to press through this. Caleb’s never hurt Sarai, but he’s never hurt me this badly before, either.
I have to get up.
“Ramone, you did good.” Caleb’s voice comes from the hall. “You showed real loyalty alerting me so quickly about West.”
At the sound of his voice just outside the door, my beaten muscles tense involuntarily, trained to brace for a blow.
“Thank you, sir,” Ramone answers stoically, his voice pitched low and gruff.
“You’ll find a bonus already wired to your account,” Caleb says. “I have a flight to catch. Leaving China early threw a few things off. My agent needs me in New York tonight. I’ll be back tomorrow, though.”
Fury percolates in my pores. Oddly, no fear. I’m done with fear, and I’m done waiting.
The stars and moon have aligned. The circumstances are right, and today I will strike.
The door swings open, and I go limp, close my eyes, and play possum one last time for the hunter.
I’d know Caleb’s footfalls anywhere. The sound of him approaching has struck terror in me many times. His steps are heavy and deliberate. He wants you to know he’s coming, but to feel helpless. His steps say you can run, but you can’t hide.
I’ll always catch you.
His expensive cologne wafts over my face. Even with my eyes closed, I know he’s standing over me, assessing the worth of his prize.
“Why did you do it?” he asks, voice tortured. “Why did you let him touch you? Why did you make me hurt you?”
The toughened bend of his knuckle brushes the hair away from my face, skimming a tender spot. I suppress the urge to wince, still feigning sleep.
“Andrew will be here soon to . . .” Caleb pauses in his one-sided conversation to clear his throat. For the first time, I wonder if he feels any real guilt when he hurts me. If in the husk where this psychopath’s heart used to be, occasionally there is a Lazarus sign—a reflexive heartbeat.
“Andrew will be here to take care of you,” he finishes. “I’ll be back tomorrow night, baby. I know you’ll be mad, but we’ll get past this. We’ve been through so much together.” His rough chuckle pricks my skin with porcupine needles. “Maybe you’ll have good news when I come back. I keep hoping for another baby.”
My gag reflex almost gives me away. The thought of his seed planted in me again roils my stomach, and the thought of his daughter in the next room is the only thing that has me holding on. The kiss he leaves on my forehead slithers over my flesh.
The most welcome sound is his retreating footsteps. My relief, the sound of his car pulling away.
It usually takes hours for me to move after a beating half this brutal, but I don’t have hours. There’s only now. This beating, timed with Caleb’s trip, is the perfect opportunity. I’ve had these things before, but what I’ve been missing is help. Today, though, I’ll ask for it. Ignoring the protest of my ribs with every breath, I force myself to sit up, to roll out of bed, wrapping myself in the sheet.
The debris of our fight litters the floor. A shattered lamp and glass from broken picture frames. There’s a crack in the wall in the shape of my defeat—the shape of my body slammed into the plaster.
I fought back.
It was my worst beating at Caleb’s hands, but I pray it was also the last.
I make my way gingerly over to Sarai’s diaper bag in the corner of the room. I search the small pockets, almost weeping with relief when I find my cell phone, still where I stowed it yesterday. Footsteps approach in the hall. I clutch the diaper bag to my chest just as the door eases open.
Andrew and I stare at each other. From the horror on his face, I can only imagine how I look.
“God, Iris.” Pity dulls his eyes. “I’m sorry. Let’s get you taken care of.”