Lorenzo: Chapter 1

My husband towers over me, his lips twisted into a cruel sneer as he threads his belt through the loops of his trousers. I rest my throbbing head against the kitchen cupboard and blink away the trickle of blood dripping into my eye, too afraid to swat it away in case he sees the motion as a pathetic attempt at retaliation. I’ve learned that the best way to handle him when he’s like this is to remain as small and as still as possible. Let him think he’s won.

“And I want you and this entire goddamn house cleaned by the time I finish my shift tonight,” he says, his bared teeth making him look like a diseased weasel. To compare my husband to a dog would be far too kind; dogs are loyal and protective and sweet. He fastens his belt, the metal buckle clattering loudly. “I ain’t fucking you in that state.”

My faint nod is met with an arrogant snort, and he glances over my almost-naked body, surveying his handiwork. With a final curl of his lip, he turns around, grabs his gun, and strides out of the kitchen—transforming into Sergeant Mulcahy, upstanding and decorated officer of the Boston PD.

As soon as the door closes, I force myself to sit up and run my tongue around the inside of my mouth. The metallic tang of blood seeps into my tastebuds, but at least I didn’t lose any teeth this time. I glance at the broken breakfast dishes littering the ground around me. Coffee and cereal are splattered all over the cabinets and the new cream floor tile we picked out together a few weeks ago.

It will take hours to clean the kitchen to meet Brad’s exacting standards. Getting my feet underneath me, I wince at the throbbing ache in my head, ribs, and thighs. When I feel steady enough to move, I stumble out of the kitchen and into the downstairs bathroom. With the light on, my gaze is drawn straight to the mirror over the sink, but there’s no need to prepare myself for the sight that greets me. How sad is that? I can’t remember the last time I looked in a mirror after one of Brad’s outbursts and felt shocked or surprised by what he’d done to me. Sad and hurt—that still gets me every time—but not surprised.

I run the water and grab a washcloth, soaking it before placing it over my right eye. Then I repeat the process I’ve done so many times that I don’t even have to think about it anymore. My muscles move of their own volition, like a machine.

I always clean my face before getting into the shower to survey the rest of the damage and to clean his cum from between my thighs. Bruises on my body I can hide, but bruises on my face require more care.

Not that I care as much about that today. Sergeant Mulcahy does whatever he can to keep tabs on me. He tapped my phone to listen in on conversations with my friends, which rarely happens these days, and he combs through my accounts and books to make sure I’m only giving massages to clients he deems appropriate. Brad sees everything—everything except me.

He’s so focused on controlling my life outside of these walls, he pays little attention to my life within it. So when I occasionally have a spot of car grease on my T-shirt or a scratch on my knuckles, he doesn’t even notice. I always have an explanation ready just in case, but I’ve never needed one.

Done showering, I wrap a towel around myself and look in the mirror. There’s a gash above my right eye and the deep purple bruise spreads over my entire cheekbone. Lifting my chin, I study the fingertip-shaped bruises around my neck and touch the cut on my bottom lip. I give myself a confident smile. This is the last time.

After my shower, I feel fresh and clearheaded. I thought it would be different. I thought my hands would tremble, that my heart would race, but I feel surprisingly calm. Calm when I walk upstairs and take the small orange floral suitcase from the bottom of the closet. Calm when I fill it with my essential toiletries, several pairs of clean underwear, and a few changes of clothes. I’m still calm when I walk down the stairs, suitcase in hand, and make my way through the kitchen, littered with the remnants of breakfast. I grab my purse, but I leave my cell phone on the counter. It’s little more than a glorified tracker these days.

Opening the garage door, I smile when I see it. My green goddess. The 1986 Mustang that Brad and his brother, Jake, bought four years ago, shortly after their father died. The one they swore they’d fix up and take on a road trip. Neither of them has touched it since, but I’ve spent the last year fixing it. It’s incredible what you can learn online these days. I mean, you can get yourself a degree using only a computer, right? No reason you can’t learn to fix an engine that way too.

Humming “Bright Side of the Road,” I can’t stop grinning as I pop the trunk and place my bag inside. I climb into the car and, with a deep breath, run my hands over the steering wheel. This is it. My ticket to freedom. It’s been a long time coming.

I get her fired up, and the roar of the engine vibrates through my bones. It’s the sweetest sound I’ve heard in my entire life. Excitement and trepidation coil in my gut. After checking my reflection one last time, I put on my sunglasses, hiding the worst of the bruises. Not that it matters where I’m headed, but I don’t want some cop seeing my busted face and pulling me over out of concern while I’m getting there. It’s a fifteen-hour drive, and apart from bathroom breaks and filling up on gas, I have no intention of stopping until I arrive at my destination.

I’ve got one shot at this, and there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell I’m going to screw it up.