Darling
one
There was so much blood.
Ryan shuddered and shook under the fluorescents. Some mixture of rain and sweat had coated her between her car and the safety of the motel room, her hair slick, matted against her neck. Lungs, overworked from the effort of keeping quiet, sputtered for air, heaving as she stumbled toward the bathroom, arms crossed over her abdomen. The blood swelled and grew, a red flower blooming on white cotton.
“Breathe,” she whispered, feeling the shake of her hands through her entire body. Her voice was a low rasp, a hiss in the brightly lit bathroom. “Shit. Okay. Fuck.”
She tugged at the shirt, fingers grasping the mess of blood roughly, and wrenched it over her head with a low groan. The knife—it had been the knife that got her—had grazed the skin over her ribs, a clean underline beneath her bra. Cursing again under her breath, Ryan rubbed pointlessly at it with a paper towel, dabbing at the still-pooling blood dumbly. It hurt. Oh, it hurt.
The shirt was a wash. She threw it angrily toward the floor, looking for the first time into the mirror in front of her. The reflection that faced her was jarring—bruises lined her face, this purple-black mess on one eye and along her jaw, a split lip that seemed to be swelling. One hand found its way to her swollen jawline, remembering, as she ran her fingers along it, each swing of his fist, deliberate and hard. The knife had been an afterthought: when she wasn't breaking, he thought he would take her out with one final swing. She leaned forward again on the counter, resting her face against her forearms.
She breathed in on a count—one, two, three, four—and exhaled the same, trying to swallow back the burn of tears behind her eyes. The bleeding would stop, and she would be fine. She had to be.
Ryan dumped her bag out unceremoniously on the counter, fumbling through an array of shit until she found the flip phone Pin had given her. It took all of her attention to look at the screen, her eyes struggling to focus on the numbers, her fingers almost frantic. “Breathe,” she mumbled again as she pressed send and held it gently against her ear.
He picked up after three rings. “Hello?”
“Pin?” Her voice was impossibly low, thick. “It's me.”
“Ryan? What's wrong, kiddo?”
She looked in the mirror hazily, eyes lingering at the long line of blood dripping down her stomach. “I—um...” She took a deep, wheezing breath. “I need help.”
Ryan shuddered and shook under the fluorescents. Some mixture of rain and sweat had coated her between her car and the safety of the motel room, her hair slick, matted against her neck. Lungs, overworked from the effort of keeping quiet, sputtered for air, heaving as she stumbled toward the bathroom, arms crossed over her abdomen. The blood swelled and grew, a red flower blooming on white cotton.
“Breathe,” she whispered, feeling the shake of her hands through her entire body. Her voice was a low rasp, a hiss in the brightly lit bathroom. “Shit. Okay. Fuck.”
She tugged at the shirt, fingers grasping the mess of blood roughly, and wrenched it over her head with a low groan. The knife—it had been the knife that got her—had grazed the skin over her ribs, a clean underline beneath her bra. Cursing again under her breath, Ryan rubbed pointlessly at it with a paper towel, dabbing at the still-pooling blood dumbly. It hurt. Oh, it hurt.
The shirt was a wash. She threw it angrily toward the floor, looking for the first time into the mirror in front of her. The reflection that faced her was jarring—bruises lined her face, this purple-black mess on one eye and along her jaw, a split lip that seemed to be swelling. One hand found its way to her swollen jawline, remembering, as she ran her fingers along it, each swing of his fist, deliberate and hard. The knife had been an afterthought: when she wasn't breaking, he thought he would take her out with one final swing. She leaned forward again on the counter, resting her face against her forearms.
She breathed in on a count—one, two, three, four—and exhaled the same, trying to swallow back the burn of tears behind her eyes. The bleeding would stop, and she would be fine. She had to be.
Ryan dumped her bag out unceremoniously on the counter, fumbling through an array of shit until she found the flip phone Pin had given her. It took all of her attention to look at the screen, her eyes struggling to focus on the numbers, her fingers almost frantic. “Breathe,” she mumbled again as she pressed send and held it gently against her ear.
He picked up after three rings. “Hello?”
“Pin?” Her voice was impossibly low, thick. “It's me.”
“Ryan? What's wrong, kiddo?”
She looked in the mirror hazily, eyes lingering at the long line of blood dripping down her stomach. “I—um...” She took a deep, wheezing breath. “I need help.”
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