Lovesick

Prologue

August 2015

(Twenty-three Years Old)

I used to believe I was a strong woman, a good woman, a faithful woman. I had dreams, things I wanted to accomplish, places I wanted to visit. Things I wanted to do and see.

My hands rubbed softly on my upper thigh. I tried to stop the wince that accompanied that action, but escaped me anyway. My hand lifted slowly, I looked at my nails, they were chewed right down to the skin. I used to love my nails, now I looked at them and despised them as much as I despised my weaknesses—the pitiful looks that I got from others, my hair that hadn’t been colored for over a year, my dry and broken skin that felt like sandpaper, my gaunt and haggard eyes.

My mind—well, that’s beyond repair. Questions like ‘would I ever be pretty enough or smart enough’ for his love ran rampant through my mind. Instead, all I got was his fists. They loved me, he told me so.

I listened hard as his footsteps came closer. I hadn’t cooked dinner because I’d lost track of time, sitting in that bathroom, listening to my own heartbeat, reminding me that I was still alive. Reminding me I could still breathe, still function, but only barely.

His fists crashed down hard on the door rocking it on the hinges, my body pulled itself in tighter, gripping harder onto the very foundations of my sanity. It didn’t want me to move, it wanted me to stay safe, to heal.

My mind knew otherwise. It knew that if I didn’t move within the next sixty seconds, more would follow, his patience would run thin, very thin. The second wave of his fists came down on the door, this time the ferocity of the jolts moved the door back and forth. I could hear the sounds of wood cracking and splintering slightly with every impact. My arms pull tighter, my body went rigid.

I internally screamed at myself to shift—just to get up and move.

You can do it I told myself. But my body had had enough, knowing that it couldn’t take any more punishment. It plain and simply didn’t want to accept any more.

I loved him so fiercely, so blindly that I gave him my all, and in return he gave me fractions of himself then his fists. His punishments hurt, but then he would kiss me with scolding passion, telling me I was the only one for him. I wanted to believe what he told me, I wanted to believe that our love could overcome his evil actions. I wanted to believe that five years ago when he first struck me—believing it was my fault—that it would only be that one time, and that he loved me so much he would never dare hurt me on purpose again.

Pushing thirty seconds, the time had clicked away in my head slowly. Those thirty seconds felt more like a lifetime. Again I attempted to force my body to move, screaming that there was only a mere thirty seconds at the most remaining. Yet again, it chose to ignore me. It was like we had been separated, something I knew I should have done with Jamie the first time five long years ago. Love is blind.

There was three more sets of pounding and counting, his cold hard voice started to permeate through the bathroom door. He told me to open it, to get out there. I didn’t reply, afraid of how my voice would deceive me.

I tried wiggling my toes, using all my concentration to work on that tiny action. It worked, I closed my eyes and willed my legs to move.

I just need to stand, I prayed to them.

The pounding had gotten harder, the banging louder as he frantically went about his fourth attempt. His temper was now raging. If I didn’t open that door in the next ten seconds, it would be torn from its hinges, I knew it would.

My hands clenched into fists, my eyes closed, a single tear escaped my eye. I wondered why, as my hand went up to touch it. I couldn’t remember the last time I cried or the last tear I’d shed. It all stayed inside, eating and chewing away at me. A war within my body raged that I knew I couldn’t win, but chose to try.

I looked down at my wet finger, while my other eye remained dry.

How odd. A single tear? Just the one escaping and running for its freedom. I wiped it across my shirt so it couldn’t escape. If I couldn’t, it couldn’t. It was only fair.

My hand landed on the door handle just as his hammering came again, and I managed to turn and open it. He stood there, tall and expansive. Stunningly gorgeous. He’d come straight from the gym, his shirt was off, his shoulders broad. His skin glistened with sweat.

How could someone so evil look like that? His mouth was tight, his hands were opening and closing at his sides. With all the pounding he’d done on the door, there were tiny blotches of blood on his knuckles. He was attempting to release the anger he had for me through his tight-clenched fists. I didn’t even know why. His hazel eyes closed, just for a brief second, enough time for me to take a deep breath before he stepped closer and I instinctively shuffled back the smallest of steps hoping he wouldn’t notice.

His hand came up, my insides screamed, my body wanted to bolt. But it was a gentle hand that touched my face, deceiving me again. I never closed my eyes to him anymore, I wanted to see the look on his face, store it in my memory for safe keeping every time he was angry. At first, it was to collect clues, to consider what it was I was doing to make him angry, and now it was just a habit. I couldn’t close them, even when I was choking I couldn’t close them. I needed to see that demonic fire in his eyes, remember it, preserve it, use it.

Baby, he whispered, stepping even closer. His touch on my skin was hot, scalding, burning me with an intensity that could melt steel, while his other hand grabbed at my hip. He leaned in, his lips touched mine, just softly.

I loved him, I hated him. I couldn’t figure out between the two feelings which were worse.

I’ve missed you. His hands came around my hips, circling, until they reached my ass and he squeezed hard. He breathed me in when his mouth left mine. Slow and soft kisses touched my shoulders. This was the part I hated myself the most for. That no matter how much I hated him, he was the only man who knew how to touch me. To make me only see him, to only want him. I. Hated. That.

He pushed himself into the bathroom fully, shutting the door that I struggled so hard to open. Closing it like there was no effort at all involved, while I fought with every ounce of strength I could muster within me to open it. He lifted my tender body, placing me in the shower, stripping my dress, and kissed every mark that he’d marked on me. I didn’t move, and soon he was as naked as me, the cold water running down my breasts. His hands ran up and down not so tenderly this time as he lifted and slammed me against the bathroom wall. My breath hitched. My breathing became hard for two reasons, one it hurt and two he was about to make me come. Even when I knew it was wrong, even when he whispered his love in my ear, I screamed internally my body shaking.

He carried me to our room, a room that was full of everything that was his. A single drawer to my name. I didn’t have much, he didn’t allow me the pleasure of my own things.

He laid me on the bed then got on top of me, his eyes shone brightly.

I’m leaving you. I rush the words out.

It was my body, my mind, and it seemed to have gained some control. My insides screamed, why must you do this? His eyes went wide, my hands started to sweat. Those beautiful lips became hard to mine. His hands moved from my side, snaked up around my neck, and I took one last breath as I watched the love of my life, the only man I’d ever loved, squeeze the life right out of me.

Like it was nothing.

1

Keegan

Present

Every morning I still do the same thing. It’s become a routine. I look in the mirror and I tell myself, ‘you are someone.’ Every morning those words have left my mouth since the first day I woke up in the hospital over a year ago. Those words may seem insignificant to some, but to me, they mean several things. I am alive, I am a woman, and I can get through the day without locking myself in the bathroom feeling threatened by life.

I’ve come a long way since that day. I no longer have a drawer of nothing, I now have a dresser full of something. I no longer feel ugly. My nails have length and substance, they haven’t looked like this in a very long time. My voice is back, I no longer have to watch my words and they have meaning now. People listen when I speak, they respond in a manner that isn’t harmful or degrading.

But with all this I haven’t been able to move on. I haven’t dated anyone since I left Jamie, I just can’t wrap my head around that concept. Jamie had such a major impact on me—I loved him, I loathed him. There was no in-between with him. I haven’t seen Jamie since that night, and I honestly hope I never do. I don’t trust myself to see him again. I’m afraid I’ll fall back into the body that’s his, not mine.

Long black pants are my choice these days, they hide the scars that shine brightly to me, but are barely visible to the naked eye. It’s a constant reminder that my day will not get worse. Every one of those pale raised ridges are a suggestion that I can go on. Let’s face it nothing could be worse than that situation I found myself in.

My shirt today is a plain tee, nothing fancy. My long brown hair is tied into a messy bun sitting on top of my head. I don’t have time to fix it, and right now I don’t really care because I’m late.

My sister Millie will tell me not to worry, but the business belongs to both of us, and I’ve been aiming to pull my weight this last year. I’m trying to gain her trust that I can do this, that I won’t leave her again like I had all those years ago. She never once has complained, all she’s ever been is supportive and there for me. Even knowing she has her own life, a partner, has been trying to conceive, she’s never once complained. It’s family like her that we take for granted because she’s always so giving. I will never be that same person that left everything on her shoulders, basically abandoning her when she needed me the most. Three rounds of IVF and not once has she stopped and said enough to anything. She smiles like her lips won’t crack at any moment. I strive to be as balanced and resolute as she is, even half the woman she is.

As soon as I walk in I see Millie, on the floor on her hands and knees. She’s scrapping something with a knife. I drop my bag next to her and place my hand over hers. When she looks up, a tear slides down her face, but she brushes it away quickly with the back of her hand and looks back down to start scrubbing at the mark again.

Millie and I look a lot alike, from our dark hair to our green eyes. She’s slightly taller than my five-foot-five frame. Her face and body are free from scars, whereas mine is covered in them.

Stop Millie, what’s wrong?

She doesn’t answer me at first. I’m surprised, the last time I saw her cry was a year ago when she visited me in the hospital. I sit down in front of her, legs crossed and waiting for a reply. She’ll stop and tell me, she just has to word it right in her own mind before she will. After a few minutes the knife drops to the floor, she sits back on her legs and looks up at me, her eyes wide and filled with sorrow, her bottom lip trembles as she stares at me.

He wants to stop. He said he can’t do it anymore. He wants to stop.

Immediately I know what she’s talking about. She wants a baby. She’s always wanted a baby ever since she was a teenager. I pull her to me, clinging to her. She needs a baby, and it breaks my heart that she can’t have one. It breaks my heart that their love—a love that’s so strong—can’t produce one easily.

She pulls away wiping at her face, looking down to the ground as the front door dings. She looks up and automatically stands.

I grab hold of her small hand, making her eyes come into contact with mine. Go out the back, Millie. I’ve got this. I offer her a kind smile.

She looks up again, then down to me, the same eyes as mine penetrate me before she turns and walks out the door. I watch as she goes and I move to the counter, picking up my apron and wrapping it around my waist before I serve the first customer—a regular, Bob. He comes in every morning for the exact same thing, he’s never changed his order, not even once. I often think about tempting him with a different variety of sandwich, something a little more upmarket or even perhaps a variety of hot meals, but he’s always so adamant about what he wants.

Usual Bob?

He nods his head pulling out today’s paper and thanking me. I’m sure there’s a story there, but for now I serve him his usual. I walk to the kitchen where Riley is cooking, and I hear the door ding again, which is surprising since people usually don’t start filtering in until later. I return through the door and behind the counter where I grab my pen and paper, and when I look up my eyes are locked. I can’t move. A man I’ve only seen glimpses of, never one to actually come in here, is walking in, his face murderous. It looks like someone killed his cat, literally. His face is darkened by the elements and weathered with small lines, where he’s drawn his brows together so tightly I think they might join. He scares me when he stops walking and tightens his fists so harshly that they start to turn white. I stare, just watching him. I’ve seen him before, several times. He works across the street in a building that’s closed during the day, but open all night. A very busy nightclub full of women ready to party and men willing to hook up. I’ve never been, heard things though, including that it’s one of the best clubs in this city. But you need to be on a VIP list so you don’t have to stand in a line for hours on end only to end up being turned away anyway.

His breathing deepens, his fists are still clenched. I stand there and watch, unsure of what I should do. Should I go and talk to him? Should I just stand there and hope he leaves? I decide to wait, debating about what I should do when I notice his breathing increase and his hands become clenched even more tightly if that’s even possible. Then, like I’m watching in slow motion he lifts his fist and I jump back, knocking the tumblers behind me off the glass shelving. Because holy mother of sugar, he just smashed my wall in my small little café. Literally. He just smashes it to bits like it’s a piece of flimsy paper he used to tear apart. He punches again, and I know I have to do something. I can’t allow him to destroy this place—no matter how stunning he is, no matter how high his amazing cheekbones are, how sad his eyes are, or how much he scares me, it doesn’t matter I won’t let him destroy this place.

His back is tensed, I’m afraid to interrupt whatever demons are consuming him right now, but I just can’t watch this place go down. This café means too much to me, way too much.

Hi, I say in a small voice from behind him. His suit pants do wonders for him hugging his ass, his white shirt strains against his bulging muscles as he keeps them clenched. He doesn’t hear me, so I move to stand next to him, his eyes fixated on the wall like it caused him physical pain or something.

Mister, I say a little louder this time.

He turns to look at me and I take a step back. His eyes shine like he’s gone out in the ocean, the beautiful deep green sea, and now the color is firmly imprinted in his irises. I’ve never seen anything like it. Ever. He grunts at me, then turns back to the wall.

Literally grunts. What’s with that?

You can’t go beating up innocent walls in my café, Mister.

He turns to face me