Bottom Feeder (34 page)

Larry’s head dips toward mine. I
prepare to slam my head against his.

“
You’re not gonna forget
me aft—” Cutoff mid-threat, Larry spews out an agonizing groan and
falls to his side.

I turn to see Dom’s foot resting on
Larry’s neck. “I’m calling the police.”

I cannot explain to the cops who Larry
is. Why he is here. “No.”

Although I am quite complacent lying
on the floor, a splitting headache is dancing a little jig behind
my eyelids, desperately calling for an aspirin or two. Or
five.

Dom grabs Larry by the neck and stands
him up. Larry tries to swing, but Dom ducks and slams his face onto
the cooking grate of the gas stove. His hand rests on the knob,
ready to turn it on.

“
What do you want me to
do?” I look at Dom. I look down at my tattered clothes. I watch as
a stream of blood from my nasal cavity drips on the hardwood.
“Maddy?”

“
Make him
leave.”

“
You will
not
come near her
again.” Dom lowers his head to Larry’s face. “You hear me?” Larry
groans. Dom smashes his head on the grate again, causing a deeper
gash in Larry’s temple. “I said,
do you
fucking hear me
?”

He nods.

“
I swear I will not
hesitate to burn your face off if I find you anywhere near this
building
again. I will hunt you down, cut
you open, gut you and feed your fucking liver to the fish in the
Hudson while your blood is still warm. You got me? I’m going to
escort you out of the building myself.” Dom turns to me. “I’ll be
right back, baby.”

“
You doin’ him now,
whore?” A trickle of blood runs down Larry’s chin.

His head makes a dent when Dom slams
him against the wall. “You don’t have the privilege to talk to her.
Move!”

The last bruise from Larry has been
healed for forty-eight days. He’s like a dog marking his territory.
Me being the territory.

When Dom returns, I am vigorously
scrubbing every surface free of blood. He removes the sponge from
my hand, scoops me up, and hauls me into the bathroom. He gently
places me on the side of the garden tub.

“
Do you need a hospital?”
I shake my head. “I’m going to clean you up, okay? Tell me if I’m
hurting you.”

He dampens a few washcloths from the
linen closet. A single tear rolls down my cheek as he dabs at
various places on my face.

The skin beneath my eyes is the angry
violet hue only a repeated-impact bruise can create. Larry’s
handprint displays like a relic around my neck. I catch a glance of
my tattered clothes in the mirror.

“
He ripped my dress,” I
note quietly. Larry’s face is embedded behind my closed eyelids
with the same angry, enraged look I’ve seen hundreds of times
before. The smell of his sweat lingers on my skin. The feel of his
breath against my ear and the sickness I felt when my hands were
bound and my mouth covered.

I open my eyes, enveloped in
filth.

Dom furrows his brow. “You can get a
new one tomorrow.”

I don’t have the voice to tell him
it’s not about the dress. I raise my trembling hands to the
remaining buttons. “I gotta get this off. Now.” My voice is
staggered as I fumble with the rest of the stupid buttons. Tears
stream down my face when my clumsy fingers cannot get them
unfastened.

“
Let me help,” Dom
offers.

I shrug out of the dress quickly. Dom
tosses it in the hallway, out of sight. My body trembles
uncontrollably. What would he have done if Dom hadn’t been here?
Has he graduated to teenage girls now? Should I feel thankful it’s
only me he has such hatred for? No one else should be subjected to
him.

“
Shower,” I manage to say.
There is not enough water in the world to remove Larry Duvall’s
slime from my body. But that will not stop me from
trying.

Dom bends to kiss the cut above my
eye. “I’ll be right outside the door.”

“
N-n-n-n-o,” I stutter. I
don’t want to be left alone. I’ve spent too much of my life alone.
Pathetic. “Will you stay? Please. Is that okay? You don’t ha—you
don’t have to.”

My legs buckle when I try to stand.
Dom catches me. I hate feeling weak. I am not weak. I am not
fragile.

“
I’m not going anywhere,”
he promises and helps me tug out of what is left of the
leggings.

I try to cover myself, but every
movement feels like my limbs are being ripped from their
sockets.

Dom helps me inside the shower and
slides down the wall beside the tub. I pull the semi-frosted door
closed, and try to take my bra off with trembling hands. I curse
myself for not owning any with a front closure. My shoulder screams
in agony when I try tugging the stupid thing over my head. I bite
my arm to keep from crying out.

Finally, I open the door
slightly. Dom’s head is back against the wall, his eyes closed.
Something inside me breaks. I am going to lose him and there’s
nothing I can do about it. Jackson was right. I
am
an omen.

“
Dom?” I
whisper.

“
Hmm?”

“
Can you help me?” As if
he hasn’t helped me enough today.

“
My hands are too . . .
and my shoulders . . .” I’ve never felt so weak in my life. “My
bra,” I sigh and look at him in apology. “I’m sorry. I didn’t . . .
I don’t. . .” I swipe a few runaway tears. “I understand if you
want to leave.”

Dom stands in front me.
“You do
not
have
to apologize for anything.” He tilts my chin until I look at him.
“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

I nod and turn around.

I keep myself covered while he removes
my bra with a certain degree of expertise. His breath hitches. His
fingers trace over scars left by Larry’s college ring, his Georgia
flag belt buckle, and whatever else he could find that cut deep
into my skin when yanked across my back.

The constant state of shame I’ve lived
in for so long washes over me. My scars are Larry’s private
trophies. Each one like a contract of possession.
Ownership.

The scalding water runs until it turns
lukewarm. Cold. Freezing. I wrap the towel around me before
stepping out of the stall. Dom is sitting on the floor, his long
legs stretched out in front of him.

“
I owe you an
explanation,” I begin.

“
You don’t . .
.”

I put a hand up. “It’s time for me to
tell you about my baggage. After, you can decide if you want to
stay.” I lead him to sit on the bed while I tell him everything
about my past. I leave Cordell, for the most part, out of
it.

“
So the man who was he
here, he caused the scars?” he asks after a long pause. I
nod.

“
He is my problem,” I
remind him. “He’s always been my problem. That’s not going to
change now.”

“
My girlfriend’s
problems
are
my
problems, Maddy.” He pushes up from the bed, pissed off. “I let him
leave! If I would have known . . .”

I shake my head. “I don’t want you
involved in any of this. Promise me.”

“
I can only make that
promise if he doesn’t return.”

Larry will be back. Of this, I am
absolutely sure. I cannot mention this to Dom. He doesn’t have to
be caught up in my mess. I only wish he hadn’t been here to witness
Larry at work.

When he first began
hurting me, I didn’t understand why. The worry over the “why” used
to keep me up at night. I thought if I obeyed my parents more or
did more chores at his house or even ritualized everything like
turning the hot water on before the cold and praying six times a
day that he would stop. But then the other stuff started. I would
close my eyes and remind myself it would be over soon. If I could
just live through that episode, I could go back to normal for a
little while. The only time I prayed during that time was to ask
God to let me die. Later I learned to take the pain in silence. I
stopped crying, stopped talking. But I
always
said no.

“
You’re shaking,” Dom
says.

The weekend with him is not turning
out as planned. I have to fix this. “You hungry?”

His sad smile is a gesture of
agreement to put this incident on a backburner. For now, at least.
“Pizza?”

I show him which remote orders movies
before changing into a hoodie and pajama shorts. Dom helps me clean
up the rest of the mess while we wait for the pizza. He disappears
into the bedroom, reappearing in black pajama pants that hang low
on his hips. And nothing else.

Even through aches and swollen eyes, I
can appreciate his beauty.

I pretend to be interested in a paper
towel pattern so my eyes stay on anything but him and his tattoos
that I still have a million questions about. His body is perfect:
not lanky, not too skinny, not too muscular. Just
perfect.

When the delivery guy rings the
doorbell, Dom grabs his wallet and the Louisville Slugger. He props
it by the door while he counts out the money, his hand always
hovering at the ready to grab the bat. He shoves the brace beneath
the knob and brings the Slugger and pizza to the living
room.

Great. Now he’s as paranoid as I
am.

I don’t think this is how
you start a relationship, Carrington.

Yeah, no kidding.

The carefully chosen movie is a
classic comedy that has us laughing in unison. It feels forced, but
I am thankful for his effort to put a smile on my face. I try not
to focus on Dom’s perfectly sculpted body sitting at the end of my
couch like a tattooed Greek statue, demanding to be gawked at. But
I do focus. I will focus on anything to help me forget this
day.

After finishing his fifth piece, Dom
sits back, patting his stomach.

I toss the remains of my unfinished
slice in the garbage.

He reclines on the couch. I sit down
stiffly, my back facing him.

“
Come here,” he whispers.
His long legs wrap around me. I revel in the warmth radiating from
him through my thin pajama shorts and thick hoodie.

“
I feel safe,” I whisper.
“Thank you.”

“
Good.” He kisses the top
of my head. “Because I am content to hold you like this
forever.”

Exhausted, I fall asleep with his body
wrapped around me like a shield.

Jackson

The cursor has been blinking back at
me for the past half hour.

Type.
Backspace. Type. Backspace.

Repeat this process ninety-seven times
and you will have my agenda since I left school tonight at eight
o’clock.

Although I’ve been thinking about this
all day, the words are not forming easily. Not at all,
really.

Type.

A knock on my door breaks my
over-concentrated concentration.

Backspace.

“
Dude, take the uniform
off already,” Morris, the medic attached to our unit, says. I open
the door for him to step inside. “Did you see the Psych
today?”

“
I don’t see him again
until next Friday,” I reply. I’ve avoided the sessions since before
I left for Georgia by volunteering for every bullshit thing
Sergeant Wotley comes up with. I can’t face the Doc right now. I
just can’t.

“
He tried to push meds on
me.” He runs his fingers absently through non-existent
hair.

Morris is having a hard time
reconnecting to everyday life since we came back home. During our
deployment, he saved the limbs and lives of dozens of soldiers.
Those he couldn’t save are the ones that haunt him. Private Samuel
Trakt, eighteen years old and fresh out of Airborne training, died
in Morris’s arms. They were best friends since daycare. Morris
loved him more than a fellow soldier, more than a brother, and
definitely more than a friend.

That day—the type of day you wish you
could do over, but would never want to live through again—is carved
with a chainsaw in all our memories. Wounds heal, but these scars
are deep. Morris’s wound will never heal.

“
Don’t tell anybody,
Monroe,” he says, finishing up the replay of what happened in the
psych’s office. “I’m struggling. Maybe I’m not cut out for this
shit without Sam, you know? I’m messing up so much. I fly off at
every little thing. I suspect everybody’s got a weapon tucked
somewhere on them. A baby was crying inside the gas station the
other day and I wanted to hurt the dad for not making her shut the
hell up. What kind of shit is that? Yesterday I worked in the
clinic. The doctor dropped his clipboard while we were working with
a patient and I dove beneath the desk. I can’t be like everyone
else and go back to normal.”

I nod in understanding, allowing him
to vent what he could never vent in the psych’s office because he
would be labeled suicidal, or even homicidal, before they know the
entire story. Morris doesn’t want to harm himself or anyone else.
He just wants his friend back.