IF IT'S SO WRONG, WHY DOES IT FEEL SO RIGHT?

SHATTERED

The thought of Nala returning to the apartment on Friday night, safe and sound, was the only thing keeping her upright. She had to get through this week, break things off with her guest, and bring her girl home.

***

Friday Night:

Nala had been waiting in her room, counting the minutes until midnight. David returned at 9:00 PM. He wasn't just drunk; he was a storm of dark, volatile rage. He saw Nala standing by her door, her packed bag a silent declaration of departure, and he saw red.

The assault was the worst Nala had ever experienced. It was a terrifying, suffocating rush of violence. He didn't stop until she was a heap of broken, aching flesh on the floor. Her vision swam, her head felt disconnected from her neck, and the taste of blood was thick in her mouth.

The words were worse than the blows.

"You ruin everything," he spat, his voice thick with liquor and hatred. "Your dad died because you were a selfish little brat. Your sister left because she couldn't stand your pathetic face. You're a disgusting dyke, and that white woman will never look at a filthy, worthless thing like you." He even blamed her for the disappearance of the family dog from years ago.

When he was done, he collapsed onto the living room couch, his breathing heavy and ragged, instantly asleep.

Nala lay on the floor for what felt like an eternity, unable to move, unable to breathe without a sharp, searing pain ripping through her ribs. An hour later, she finally managed to push herself up onto her elbows. A choked sob escaped her throat, quickly muffled by her hand. She couldn't wake him.

Every millimeter of movement was pure, agonizing torture. She slowly, painfully, dragged herself across the carpet, her muscles screaming in protest. She managed to grab her duffel bag.

The walk to the car was a nightmare. She limped, her legs barely supporting her, gasping softly with each step to keep the sounds of her pain from waking David. She reached her car, the expensive vehicle her mother had bought to maintain the facade of a loving family, and sank into the driver's seat.

She caught her reflection in the rearview mirror. She looked unrecognizable. Her face was swollen to oblivion, cuts bled sluggishly near her brow, and her eyes were nearly slits framed by rapidly darkening bruises. Her vision was blurry, but she forced herself to focus, turning the key.

The clock read 9:10 PM. Too early. Billie wouldn't be alone. Nala leaned her head against the steering wheel and let out a strangled moan of agony and despair. She had nowhere else to go. She drove the familiar route on autopilot.

When she reached Billie's apartment building, she saw the lights on and heard the faint, muffled sound of music from the second floor. She saw Billie's car parked outside.

Nala sat in her car, sobbing silently, the vibration of her cries sending jolts of pain through her bruised body. She called Billie's phone—once, twice, three times. No answer. The music was probably too loud.

She hesitated. She couldn't walk in on a party, especially not looking like this. She didn't want to be a burden. But the pain was blinding, relentless. She needed Billie. Now.

Nala slowly opened the car door and began the ascent up the stairs. She moved with excruciating slowness, each step a testament to her desperation. She couldn't suppress the small, involuntary moans that escaped her lips as her weight shifted onto her battered legs.

When she finally reached the apartment door, she stood there, swaying slightly, taking a moment to gather the last fragments of her strength. She lifted her hand and pressed the doorbell three times.

The music volume dropped abruptly, and after a moment, the door opened.

The man standing there was not Finneas. He was taller, broader, with a clean-cut look and a surprised frown.

He immediately saw her. His eyes widened, and his jaw dropped.

"Oh my God. Are you okay? Do you need help?" he asked, his voice laced with shock and concern.

Nala, driven by a lifetime of people-pleasing reflex even in the face of death, managed to force out a shaky reply. "No. I'm good. I don't need help." She swayed, catching herself on the doorframe. "Can you call Billie, please?"

"Billie?" he asked, stepping slightly into the hallway. "Sure, but who are you so I can tell her?"

"I'm a student of hers. Nala. She told me if I ever needed help, I could come to her." The words were slurred and difficult to form through her swollen lips.

She looked past him into the apartment. Streamers were everywhere. There were two other people visible, laughing near the kitchen counter. This is wrong.

"Maybe now isn't the right time," Nala whispered, attempting to turn, the movement sending a fresh wave of agony through her body.

The man reached out instinctively, grabbing her wrist. "No, wait!"

Nala let out a sharp, involuntary hiss of pain, her eyes squeezing shut.

He dropped her wrist instantly, horrified. "I am so sorry. Just don't leave. It's okay, I'll get her." He turned toward the living room, raising his voice above the low music. "Hey, babe? Someone here for you."

Nala froze. Her wide, bruised eyes fixated on the man's back. Babe.

Another voice, Billie's voice, sounded from the other room. "Who is it, baby?"

Nala's breath hitched in her throat. The sound of Billie's voice, directed at this stranger, shattered the last fragile remnants of Nala's trust. Tears, hot and fresh, streamed down her battered, stinging cheeks.

The man turned back to Nala, his expression apologetic, just as Billie rounded the corner.

Billie's eyes, usually sharp and penetrating, went wide with immediate, gut-wrenching horror. She stopped dead, one hand flying to her mouth. She didn't see her student; she saw a mangled stranger. Her gasp was loud and broken.

Then, Billie saw the man next to Nala, saw the devastation on Nala's face, and the full weight of the deception crashed down on her. Nala hadn't just been beaten; she had found out the truth about the 'fumigation.' The look in Nala's eyes—the unspeakable pain from the assault, compounded by the silent, absolute breakage of her heart—was unmistakable. 

...to be continued.