Temper (Taboo Book 1)

33- Beaten

I plopped onto the bed and stared at my new red sneakers. My mind tried to wrap around all that happened, but nothing felt real.

Hannah was dead and I never knew. I survived the past two years to end up alone in a cheap motel room with the man I loved and despised. I felt trapped in a Shakespeare play but couldn't figure out if it was a comedy or tragedy.

I fell back across the mattress. I smiled as I drifted to sleep and despised myself for it.

My eyes fluttered open to see him kneeling at my feet, sweetly pulling the sneakers from my feet. He stomped out the last of his cigarette on the carpet before draping me in a stained, worn blanket.

"Thank you," I whispered as I curled beneath the thin fabric.

I woke again in a panic as heavy thuds reverberated through the dark room. I listened and realized the sound came from the bathroom.

The hiss of old pipes from the sink and shower and muffled fists against the painted brick walls startled me continuously but fear kept me from checking on him. I didn't understand how he possessed the energy to still be awake after so much blood loss and spent energy.

Silence settled around dawn and I stopped fighting my heavy eyes.

I lifted myself as the late afternoon light seeped through the brown curtain. I needed to use the toilet and thought I'd make him move to the bed. When I opened the bathroom door I was surprised to find him sprawled across the dingy floor.

The blood-soaked towel was removed from his back. He used it as a pillow. I stared at the bruising and gashes. He grimaced in pain even as he slept. It was unsettling to see him across the floor.

The Hugh I knew washed his hands until they became so chapped they bled. He hung his clothes by color and function. I caught him multiple times remaking my bed even after his mother fixed my imperfection. He would wash a dish with soap and scalding water simply because it sat on his ruthlessly clean counter.

This version of Hugh bared open wounds against unknown germs on a filthy bathroom floor. His injuries were because of me and mine because of him. Doubt flickered and sizzled in my mind as I reflected on his deceitful declaration of love.

Before I could fully turn away he scrambled to stand. He rubbed his eyes, wobbly and groggy. "You alright?" he asked in his gravelly, sleepy voice. I nodded, my throat stuck. He squinted at me. "I'll take you home."

I still questioned my safety with him behind the wheel. He was obviously exhausted but I worried for Stan.

Hugh left the key in the door as I slid into the passenger's seat. For too long we rode in silence. The thumping and screaming from his speakers didn't fill the void between us.

I didn't mention how I finally slept without one image of gore. I didn't ask him about the change in his behavior or the violent sounds through the night. It all felt too personal. We shared one strangely intimate moment in the tight bathroom, but it was gone and I wasn't yet capable of inviting another.

Every brush of his arm against mine drove euphoria through me. I hated knowing I lived so long without him and would have to continue doing so. I was broken but so was he.

I recognized the addiction in him too when he hissed with masochistic pleasure from our subtle contacts. He gave in and I allowed him to. His fingers draped over my knee as though he needed to touch me.

I wrapped my hand around his to hold him against me. I died knowing I would have to release him for my own health and sanity.

I was suffocating when we pulled into my driveway and stopped in front of my house. His eyes trained on something in the distance. I could almost touch the fury clouding his mind.