Against All Odds

Chapter Eighteen

When I open my eyes, finding consciousness, I'm still in the dark. There's pain- everywhere. I can't breathe, too scared to move. I stare into the darkness of the room enough for my eyes to adjust to it. I'm on a bed, I know that much... and I'm alone.

I blink as tears escape from the sides of my eyes, pouring down into my hair and neck. I don't have to move to know that I'm unclothed beneath these covers. My memories are a blur of every worst nightmare I've ever dared to think of. Except they happened. I feel the hair stuck to my forehead by blood. I remember feeling it drift down my face as he held me down. He was rough, blind, and incoherent.

He didn't care that I was drifting in and out of consciousness.

I try to move my fingers, which are trembling beside me. I hear a noise escape my lungs when I try to sit up, reaching for the light. It flicks on beside the bed and I begin to sob, finding dark purple bruises in the shape of fingers on my forearms.

I flinch, remembering the pain as he dug them into the bed, his grips excruciating, making sure I couldn't get away. Through my tears, panic begins to set in, replacing shock. I grab the nightstand for support and lift myself, hyperventilating when my thighs meet, excruciatingly.

Oh my god. I drop my face into my hand, trying not to remember. Trying not to remember whether or not he used a condom. I walk to the closet, picking out a long sleeved shirt and leggings. I put them on quickly, desperate to get out of this hotel room, knowing that at some point, he will come back, probably with his father.

I walk into the bathroom and turn on the light. I look into the mirror and shake my head, crying harder. My right eye is blue and swollen, and a coronary has popped, displaying the release of blood. An entire patch of my hair is soaked with blood but when I lift it, I'm relieved to see that the gash isn't wide. I don't think I need stitches.

I turn on the faucet, dousing my hands into the water, trying not to stare at the marks he left on my arms and lift, running my fingers over the dried blood quickly. I run back out into the room, searching for a jacket with a hood, so I can remain hidden on the streets.

I find one and put it on, zipping it up. My brain is throbbing, my vision dizzy but I manage to grab my phone off the ground and pick up my purse before I hurry for the door.

I take the subway to Queens, keeping my face low the entire time, hoping not to be noticed. I've never taken the subway this late before, too scared to. But right now, I just want to get to Ida.

Her stairs are hard to climb since every bone in my body is tired, so I'm out of breath when I finally get to her door. I knock repeatedly, praying she's home. Praying she's on my side.

She opens the door, in a robe, pushing her hair back from her face tiredly. Her eyes widen in horror and she shakes her head, reaching for me.

"Oh, baby, no," she breathes, pulling me inside. She slams the door and locks it, turning to me. "Oh, Mia." She wraps her arms around me and despite everything, I lean into it, desperate to feel anything but terrified.

"What happened?" she whispers, pulling back. She grabs the hood, pulling it down and shakes her head angrily, tears welling up in her eyes. "That goddamn bastard."

"I didn't know where to go," I whisper as she grabs my trembling hands in hers. She breathes in, deeply, clearing her throat with difficulty.

"Di-Did he-?"

I look down, biting my lip to stop my tears. Wishing I could forget. Wishing I had never left London.

"I'll kill him," she utters, viciously. "He can't get away with this! He can't! I'm calling the police."