Blood & Water

Delilah: Tuesday

   There's a knock on the door and my heart rate goes up even more. I'm sitting on a toilet in the family/disabled bathroom at Target with neither a family nor a disability. I'm holding my clammy head in my hands, talking to myself about breathing and other supposedly involuntary mechanics of the human body.

    Count to ten. They'll just have to wait.

    Another knock.

    "Just a minute?" My voice is squeaky and high. I'm dizzy from the sacrifice of breath that comes from speaking.

    Count to ten. Rushing just makes it worse. Breathe.

    I reach for the toilet paper but my hands are numb so I paw at the roll until it spins.

    I flush, go to the sink, run the water, look up.

    It's not so bad.

    I take a baseball cap out of my bag. It's not mine; I look stupid in hats. But the visor shades the deepening purple around my eye and when I suck in my lower lip, you can't even see that it's split.

    I turn off the faucet and look myself in the eyes. It's all there: the disgust and self-pity and blame. My heartbeat has slowed.

    Get out of here. Now.

    The young mother on the other side of the door is so relieved when I exit, she hardly gives me the stink eye I deserve as she pulls her desperate five-year-old inside and I slip past, keeping my head down.

    I leave Target empty-handed. I was going to get supplies for the trip, but I'd left my cart in the make-up aisle after catching a glimpse of myself in a mirror. The bruises were darkening fast and I was sweating. Trying to keep from having a panic attack in public feels like that movie, Teen Wolf, like you don't want everyone to find out you're really an animal.

    Once when we were making up after a fight, Marty told me he felt like an animal sometimes. I tamed him. We'd been together for three tumultuous years. Loving him felt like a calling. He needed me. He said once that he knew I was good for him, but he wasn't sure he was good for me. I held him tighter and told him not to be so silly.

    I should have listened to him then.

    My car is parked close; the store wasn't open when I arrived. The plan was to load up on juice and power bars so I wouldn't be tempted by fast food chains.

    I sit behind the wheel and take several deep breaths. I make a new plan.

    I'll stop for snacks once I've passed a state line or two, once I've put some distance between me and the damage that's been done. There are consequences to sticking around.

The first night, I find a dirt road in the woods and I sleep in my car. It's too cold to crack the windows after dark, but with them up, I feel like I might suffocate. I crawl into the backseat and try to sleep curled up on my side since there isn't room to stretch out. The middle of nowhere is noisier than you think it will be and the night is such a disaster, I vow to splurge on a motel room the next night.

    On the road, I listen to my music. Not his. Marty was a music theory major and had very pretentious ideas about music. I am of the opinion that musical taste is entirely subjective, like with literature or food. If you like lima beans, it isn't because you're stupid or wrong – you just have different taste buds.

    Marty thought my music was bad – like, in an absolute, definitive way. And his music was good. So I got used to Bishop Allen and the Avett Brothers and The Smiths. Turns out, all the good music is by men.