I don't want to leave my bed. The covers protect me. Nobody even knows what is wrong with me – not even me. This is not about him or me, how am I supposed to fight my way back to normal when all my fight is gone?
Two people should not be able to harm each other this much.
The deep arches in my feet fit into one another as I fold into myself. If I get up my roommate will speak to me but I really can't call out of work again, well, maybe one more day.
I need to find my shield again for it is not strength that will allow me to reenter the world once more, it is a lie – a lie that I will tell so long that even I will believe it. After all, even reality is subjective. I could turn on the television and fall into fake worlds but that thought leaves just as soon as it arrives. For now I will chew my nails and pretend I am asleep until it becomes the truth.
She knocks on my door and tells me that He is on the phone again but the lights are out in my room and she mistakenly tells him I am asleep. I might be sick or something because I have been in there a few days. She is correct in a way – I exist between the two worlds. This does help me convince myself that I most certainly will have to get up soon for people are beginning to become suspect.
Three days later I soak in a scolding bath then pull on my bulkiest sweater and walk through the mouth of my room. I vomit in the kitchen trash and have to brush my teeth again. I am in a very dark place and nobody can know.
I eat lunch alone for a few days but by Thursday I can no longer work through my lunch without raising concern.
Jennifer is stuffing her face with low carb popcorn because she is "not really all that hungry," she is chewing loudly with cracked lips. She may even be bleeding so I focus harder and blink a few times. She is fine, her lips are fine. I have to hurry to the bathroom because I am dry heaving my non- existence lunch.
"Claire must still be sick," I hear in passing later and my boss comes in and wishes me well. I drive home, walk through the parking lot to our downstairs apartment. He is standing in our doorway. He sees me but I feel so small that I cannot feel myself and I wonder if he can even see me.
"Claire." He speaks. I am frozen outside by the concrete stairs that lead to the upstairs apartments. "You haven't called me back, I was worried." He does not say what worries him. My health? Have I spoken to anyone? About himself?
My screams are gone and my stomach empty. I wish he were dead, I wish I were. I am a shell. He pleads with me. I am not angry and I am not sad yet when he touches my hand I cry. I cry for what we had and for what he did to me. I cry for what we will never have again. I cry because he took something that I can never get back, Twenty years from now I will recover, maybe ten or five but recovery implies a return to something, to whole, to health.
He is still holding my hand. A chill breaks through my body fiercely and unexpected. "Can we talk?" He asks, "You can't just cut me out of your life." He is right I cannot.
"You need to leave." I tell him.
"Claire."
"Leave."
"I love you."
I can push past him if he is not expecting it but when I actually move he grips my shoulder. A good three seconds pass before I recognize my own scream. He drops his hands.
"What the fuck?" He says this with flashing anger and I recognize him. Someone upstairs unlocks their apartment door. "Crazy bitch."
I am past him and my key slips in the door. I know that he wants to push inside but there is a witness - nosey neighbor turned asset.
"Hello?" I call out in an unrecognizable squeak, reminding him that someone can hear me. Our eyes meet. He sees the fear in mine but I do not wait to see how he feels about it. I shut and lock the door. The blinds are open to my patio and the thought of seeing him standing there, looking at me pushes me forward. I make sure that it is locked and pull the blinds shut. This is not the end. This idea weighs on me.
I take another hot bath and scrub my skin. I am scrubbing off his touch on my shoulder and everywhere else he has ever touched. I bring the phone in with me and lock the bathroom door. The water burns my skin and for a moment I feel clean. Afterwards I wrap myself in long sleeves so I do not have to see my red skin. I curl under the covers again. I am going to have to make through a full day or so at work if I plan on making rent.
My head hurts and I get up and take asprin. I think I take aspirin. I forget. I take more. I vomit.
The blood has stopped. It has been seven days, like an anniversary. My stomach hurts and I fall asleep on the bathroom floor.
My roommate thinks he hit me and tells me that I can talk to her. I can't. I go for a run but I haven't held enough food down to make it to the end of the parking lot. There is a little girl running away from me, I think I scared her. I scare myself. It is me running from myself, there is no little girl, I am the little girl. I have lost consciousness again; I will never be okay again.
My mother is here, my roommate must have called her. There are doctors and they ask me what happened. I sleep. I am not sure why I can't tell my story but I feel like I no longer exist.
He comes here and my mom is watching me, she knows. They want to bring out the rape kit but I tell them it has been too long. I want to go home. They want me to make a statement, I want to go home.
I curl in my bed once more and cover my face with my hair. My mom is in bed with me and I sleep.
