For as long as she can possibly remember, Michael Brentwood (Scott Foley) has always been Amy's lifeline, the only person she can count on to heal her pain, not only emotionally but more importantly, physically. He's unbelievably kind, compassionate...
The sound of "Trouble Sleeping" by Corinne Bailey Rae floated out of the iPod dock speakers, pulling Amy from her slumber, her eyelids fluttering open and a soft moan rising up in her throat. Turning over in bed, she reached out and hit snooze, instantly silencing the music and curling up to her pillow, her eyes falling shut again. She knew she was going to have to get up, and start getting ready to go to the ER. Well, if she expected to meet Michael for their appointment on time, but it didn't have to be right this minute.
He wouldn't get mad if she arrived a few minutes late. With Michael, she almost always had a "get-out-of-jail" free card. He would understand if something came up at the last minute and she couldn't make it or if she got there late, as long as she had a plausible excuse to go with it.
Ten minutes later, when she just started to drift off to sleep, she jumped at the sound of her alarm again. Groaning wearily, she reached over, hitting the snooze button again and turning onto her back. Stretching her arms above her head, she exuded a second groan and opened her eyes. She stared at the ceiling for a couple minutes before looking over at the clock on her dock. 2:30 p.m. She was half-tempted to stay in bed but as much as she hated to admit it, she had things to do and they had to be done today. Exhaling sharply, she pushed herself up to a seated position and yawned. After rubbing at her eyes with her fists, she pulled back the covers on her bed and pushed herself up to her feet.
Crossing to her closet, she rolled the door open and gathered up a clean pair of underwear, a bra, some dark denim True Religion jeans, and a black and gray striped shirt with a matching black shawl. After unplugging her dock, she headed to the bathroom, plugging it into the outlet near the sink. She shut the door behind her then pulled her pajama top over her head, glancing back at her reflection in the mirror.
Suddenly she froze, her jaw falling open, eyes widening in horror when her gaze locked on the dark red bruises that swept either side of her neck. Not just on her neck but her upper arms too. Running her fingers lightly along her neck, her bottom lip quivered and her eyes welled up in tears. Her hand came down to her arm, her fingers lightly brushing the half-red and purple bruises there.
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Covering her face with her hands, she burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably. How could she have let this happen? How could she have let that son of a bitch hurt her this way...again? She thought she was stronger than that. She wanted to be stronger than that, but she wasn't doing a very good job of it and her current bruises were proof of that. Who was she kidding? She couldn't be a detective, she couldn't even be a CSI. She was a weakling, just as she had always been. No amount of self-defense or kick-boxing classes were going to change that. What she needed was a weapon, a real weapon. Yeah, right, fat chance. She didn't have a license to carry a gun, let alone the money to buy or the skills to handle one. Ripping a piece of toilet paper from roll, she dried her eyes then blew her nose.
She had to do something.
Tossing the toilet paper in the trash, she frantically reached for her phone, pulling it from the dock. Quickly pulling on her robe, she opened the bathroom door and scurried into her bedroom, searching through the things she had set on the chair the night before. She sniffled softly, the tears continuing to stream down her cheeks. "Where is it? Oh god, please..." She pleaded softly. Salem yowled sadly from behind her. "Not now, Salem," she cried, grabbing her hair in frustration.
