Antidote

So this was it, my idea of happiness. Lying on the cold and unforgiving tile in our bathroom, a crimson dribble making its way past my chapped lips.

Idiot.

I had no right to cry, because I deserved every last bit of this. Every slap and scream whirled my way, came with a sensible reason. I just..didn't know what they were at the moment. I could still hear his angry footsteps in the foyer, knowing he was looking for the car keys. In a mind that wasn't really mine, I rolled my eyes at how ironic this was. Beaten and bruised, the delicate fiance trapped in such a horrific situation.

Hadn't this been what I was positively sure wouldn't happen to me, never in a million years? Hadn't I sat there and laughed at the cheesy, overdramatic movies on TV where the battered housewife just sits there and continues to take a beating? It honestly seemed funny to me, because I could feel the karma kicking in.

Ha ha.

I didn't bother trying to move, because I knew that he'd probably broken or sprained something this time. Had it not been so early in the morning, I probably would've planned on camping out here. As reality came knocking though, Plan A had to be kicked to the curb.
Oh yes, because not showing up for work today when my weirdly observant boss already had his theories would do so much for my 'everything's fine' display. Please, he was probably already deliberating on whether or not he should call the cops. So instead I focused on relaxing every muscle in my body, knowing this would go a lot easier if I wasn't stressed out on top of having additional bruises to cover.

...Five, four, three, two..one.

And then Demetri was gone, the accelerating of his car the only evidence that he wasn't coming back to hit me again. For a minute I almost wished he would, but it's not like his coworkers didn't have their own ideas as well. If there was anything he cared more about then being in control, it was maintaining a spotless reputation at work. No, he would not let me get in the way of that, not today.

I'd done it by fueling the flame so early - he'd probably be ten minutes late - not like I really gave a crap. He'd come home late, drink one too many beers and apologize profusely for breaking his promise. Again. I had the routine down, flawlessly. It may've shocked and went against everything I ever thought I knew about Demetri four months ago, but I knew better now. He wasn't the sweet and thoughtful guy I'd met over the Internet and fallen in love with almost a year ago, not anymore. That person was long hidden under a mask of some sort, only to come out when he was intoxicated beyond belief.

"Lola, you in here hun?"

The familiar voice pulled me out of my thoughts abruptly, a sigh of relief escaping my throat despite my throbbing lip. I let my eyes close, my head still lying on the icy floor. When I opened them again all I could see were the cuffs of faded jeans and black and white converse, hands stroking back the black hair that shrouded the rest of my face.

Gently my head was turned so that I was looking up, staring back into eyes the color of jade. I could see the composed lack of expression on his face, though something raged behind those emerald orbs. He didn't need to ask for details or hear my muttered apologies as he slipped his arms under me, returning to his feet in one fluid movement. I winced against my still stinging lip, grabbing hold of a nearby towel as he left the room.

"You know it's cruel of you to forbid me from leaving right now and tracking him down like the mongrel he is, don't you?" he asked calmy, briefly glancing down at me. I nodded, cradling my now aching skull against his cool arm. I didn't want to be reminded of the fact that he'd had it out for Demetri ever since that night he walked in on my fiance kicking me around like an old ragdoll. I'd made him promise to stay out of it, though he found his own loophole in being sure to occupy any time with me that he could, or to be at the house as much as possible. I saw the way the two men eyed each other whenever they were in the same room, and even my control freak of a future husband wasn't dumb enough to try something with my bestfriend around.

He set me down gently on my bed, taking a step back to assess the damage this time. Of course, I'd been one with the floor throughout the fight, but I didn't need a mirror to see that it was far from unnoticeable this time.

"Bruised all over, busted lip.." he continued on, looking me up and down. "And that's only the front."

I ignored him, moving to get up from the bed and walk past him to my closet. Only I stumbled once I made my third step. He caught me swiftly, putting me right back where I was and lightly placing his hands on my shoulders as he got down to my eye level.

"You're not getting anywhere without help, and I'm not seeing how work is even plausible right now sweetheart," he stated. "I can get you dressed and drop you off at work, but you have lost your mind if you think Rodgers won't suspect something."

Ryan knew all about the charade I tried to pull at work. Everytime he found me like this he got closer to letting Mr. Rodgers, the owner of the book store I worked in, in on the secret he could only guess at. Of course, this would be bad in a few ways. For one, they'd never look at me the same. I wouldn't be tough girl Lolita anymore, I'd be the one who always needed someone to protect her. Delicate and fragile, the things I knew I wasn't. If Mr. Rodgers did know, that put him in danger. I didn't think Demetri himself would ever hurt the old man, but he had friends that probably wouldn't bat an eye at pulling him into some dark alley. And if Demetri hurt Ryan, then what would I do?

In all honesty, he should have up and abandoned me by now. I was a horrible friend to him, and even though I didn't ask him to save me everytime something like this happened, he did it anyway. Where was the friendship in one always having to save the other, watch them let someone else destroy them from inside-out because of 'love'? When had I ever been the one calling Ryan in the middle of the night to talk him through hysterics or drive him to the doctor's office because there was a big chance he'd injured his head from being smacked to the floor with brute force?

I'd come to the conclusion that he was crazy, because I would have told myself off ages ago. I didn't deserve the soft hands that pulled a clean shirt over my head or helped me stand to tug a pair of jeans over my legs without causing agonizing pain.

He didn't say anything more, and he didn't need to speak in order to tell me that I wasn't going to work today. I was already reaching for the phone, preparing to fake another sick day. Rodgers could jump to all the conclusions he wanted, but I wasn't letting him know he was right all along. I'd keep faking it as long as I needed to, as long as it took to get Demi to see that he was wrong. If he didn't kill me first, of course.