WHEN: Saturday May 9th ⶠSunday May 10th
WHERE: Santa Barbara, California ⶠSan Antonio, Texas
WARNINGS, TRIGGERS: Mentions of blood, swearing, heavy drinking,
violence/abuse -- physical, emotional, sexual. I am so sorry
Pages and pages of papers in front of her. Medical forms. Not textbook worksheets or essays, not written notes or typed up strands of data stretching for the miles of her distracted mind. Medical forms, files and files and files of them. All around her the walls were painted white -- off white, calming white; and the wallpaper lined halfway down with a greenish squiggly print â something to look at when there wasnât enough art or taupe colored space to draw away from. There was a plant in the corner with a red pot underneath it, and she remembered her fingers were shaking. Cold. They kept the thermostat freezing out here.
Four hundred and sixty seven.
Her hand wringing at the back of her neck, her elbow resting at the clinic counter, she didnât hear the footsteps coming up behind her, didnât even notice a presence until it came with a interjected voice to break the heavy silence her mind provided. âHey.â
Lizzie jumped in her chair, shoulders arching tensely. Â
âWhoa, sorry.â Apologetic smile from her fellow intern. Her name was Jessica, all Lizzie really knew about her was that she was extremely friendly and type-A, but the work usually kept them too busy to know much else. They went to different schools. âI was just wondering if you were still going for that summer job here. I mean, I am. I applied here, St. Johnâs, Mercy Hospice, LorivilleâŠâ Jessica was always so quick to talk about her ambitions. Calm the fuck down, Jessica.
âThatâs cool. Yeah, I am.â She shrugged. âI guess weâll find out in June, right?â Turning back to the phone records, Lizzie began thumbing through sheets of paper absentmindedly before carefully looking down at the notification preview screen at her phone.
Four hundred and sixty eight.
It was time for her to be off the clock. Putting her phone in her pocket with a slight shiver running down her spine, she knew she shouldnât be checking her phone at work anyways â she knew if Jessica got the chance to tell on her for it, sheâd do it, but then again, at this point she didnât really care. All this week she hadnât really been herself⊠sheâd thrown herself into her work, definitely, but she barely spoke to anyone, and when it came to minding the rules and Jessica, she more or less didnât give a shit. She was hurting. But she couldnât let herself think about it.
Gathering her stuff together, she punched herself out, filling her head instead with thoughts about anything else â the job, school, friends that didnât run in the same circle, anything.
Four hundred and six â
Four hundred and seventy.Â
She was getting tired as hell of all of it. She never read them. They were simple messages, short enough to read from the preview screen on her phone, never longer than a simple line â a thought concise enough to be repeated in her head over and over again. They were to the point. Just enough to cut her down. Sometimes she took the calls, to yell. Once or twice she just listened. She was tired as hell.
âIâm getting a new number.â Sitting in the car, her voice was shaky, but she always hoped he couldnât tell.
âNo you arenât.â Nicky always could.
And then she hung up. It shouldâve bothered her more, the way he was obsessed with tormenting her. But the just like the way heâd cultivated her to ever since her freshman year of high school, she believed she deserved it. Deep down, she let him stay in her life because she thought he was right, on some level. She welcomed the punishment.
When she was finally back at the sorority house, it was late, and she was exhausted. Sheâd spent the night drinking straight from the bottle and mostly half passed out in bed, scrolling through her timeline late at night, the glare of her screen giving her a headache. Something about it made her snap, her emotions running high, even though she always fought them from coming out. But looking around her room, she realized she couldnât fight it, not this. She didnât want to be here. Her walls were covered with pictures that reminded her of things she didnât want to think about, goals and memories and stupid things that reminded her of home. There were things from Florida, things from Texas. These werenât even her sheets. Sheâd only bought them six months ago, they werenât hers. Her bed was at home, everything she needed wasnât here. She didnât trust this place anymore. She didnât want to be here.
It wasnât summer yet. But she couldnât stay here anymore. She couldnât stay in Santa Barbara, in this bed, with these people. Nope. She wanted home.
Sending one last tweet on her phone, Lizzie threw her bottle angrily at the wall, the clanging sound alarming no one in her sorority house. Theyâd all left her to go out, after sheâd begged and pleaded them to. It was a good thing she was alone, too, because before she could question what the loud sounds were hovering in the air around her she realized they were sobs and they were coming from her, spilling from her, her knees hitting the floor and barely missing a piece of the broken glass bottle. Shit. She had â she couldnât fucking do this. Did she want it to stop? No, of course she fucking didnât. But she couldnât. She couldnât do this. Where was his shit? She was going to get it all together, right fucking now. Fuck you, Parker.
Her legs scraped against the glass roughly on the floor, breaking skin, but she was so drunk she didnât care. Or she was so sad she didnât care, whichever, really. Where was the box? Where the hell did she put that stupid thing when he wouldnât let her give it back the last time? God. Fuck it, sheâd start a new one. Clothes, birthday gifts, photos, she looked for anything she could find. Everything she could find. She gathered it all, stuffing it haphazardly  into a big moving box, accidentally crushing a snow globe under the weight of a book. After a while she finally found where sheâd put the first box, stuffed under her bed, and she poured the contents of that box into the bigger box. God, was there really this much stuff? She ended up having to use more than one container. There were hoodies, sweaters, textbooks, even a clock fucking radio â was that his? He was getting it, anyways, fuck it. All the stuff. Stuff everywhere. She put her sheets into one of the boxes, she hadnât meant to do that, but she was pretty fucking drunk.
She mustâve passed out halfway through the night, because when she woke up, it was four in the afternoon. âShit.â Lizzie whispered, groaning. She wasnât usually one to get hangovers, but she felt weak as soon as she tried to stand, her knees feeling rubbery and a strange pain on her skin. Feeling below, she realized from the texture and the look of patchy red that sheâd scarred herself â great. Looking around in confusion, she wondered for a moment why it appeared sheâd been fucking robbed in the middle of the night; dresser drawers pulled out, clothes strewn every which way and piles of her stuff upturned everywhere. And then, in the middle of the room, a set of boxes, with chicken scratch, erratic handwriting in green highlighter â green highlighter, really? Fucking hell. The words âyour shitâ and some badly laid tape stretched atop the cardboard. Sheâd even gotten blood on one of the boxes, how fucking drunk was she last night, Jesus Christ.
Lizzie sighed. Truthfully. If she did let herself think about it â which she wouldnât do, but if she did. Sheâd know that the only reason she tried to stay so mad at him was so she wouldnât break down. She wanted to be mad. Sheâd let herself stay completely furious and break a million bottles before she ever cried herself to sleep again.
But she was thinking about it. Lizzie was thinking about all of it, and thinking, and thinking. And her legs slid, again, and her back was against the side of her bed, her head in her hands as she audibly told herself not to cry. She could feel every piece of heat in her tears on her hands, pressed so hard against her face that her palms began to feel raw. Her shoulders ached into sobs. For seven consecutive days and one morning sheâd been in this position, knowing the floor of her room better than the air outside. Sheâd numbered every fleck in the carpet, every paint chip in the walls. She knew when the light would flicker through the door from the hall and when it would go out. But she didnât know when people lied. She was still, apparently, pretty bad at that.
âFuck.â Lizzie still felt drunk from the night before, weak, sleepy, maybe a bit like she was aching, but she couldnât tell if that was from the alcohol or not. She had to get it together, get off the floor. She wouldnât let this happen again, she could do better than this.
Sheâd missed a picture.
Stepping close to her mirror as she got up, she zeroed in on what only a moment ago sheâd innocently spotted from the corner of her eye â a polaroid taped to the corner of the reflective surface, right behind a pile of books. Graduation. It was graduation, and she remembered her mom asked for a picture of the two of them. They hadnât been speaking then, either, but they were still⊠they took the picture. Lizzie faked a smile, but not because she didnât want to be there. It was because she loved him and he was leaving.
She tore it up instantly without much of a second thought.
Mom. Lizzie hadnât kept her much in the loop with what had gone on with them in the past year, or so. She used to tell her parents everything. Almost everything⊠not always the bad things, but all of the good things, she told them. God, she missed them. And then, a piece of last night returning to her, she recalled why the boxes were there in the first place.
Somewhere between thinking too much about home and her seventh swig of wine, Lizzie had called a cab, and stuck a post it note to her door with one word in her handwriting: Gone.
Lizzie had arrived to town in the middle of the day, but her parents werenât home. The house was quiet, but still, it made her happy.
Four hundred and seventy six.
Spreading her hands against the counter and letting her head fall in frustration, Lizzie leaned. She told him to stop calling. She wanted it to stop⊠she.
âNick. Iâm going home for a few days, okay, I just want some peace. Please.â Lizzie felt like she wanted to cry. The plane was about to take off. She didnât need this.
âRemember when you begged me to stay with you. You begged me not to do what I did. LizzieâŠâ He always sounded so calm. She used to think it meant he was confident, cool. Now she only attributed it to something sadistic in him.
âFuck off.â She knew that would make him angry. She didnât care.
Lizzie was tired of the messages, tired of thinking about Nick, so she stuffed her phone in a drawer for the next few hours.Â
Sheâd been in the kitchen cooking when the front door opened. Her parents, she assumed. âI know you werenât expecting me, but I hope you donât have takeout with you because I made dinnerââ But once she stepped around the corner she froze.
âHey, Liz.â Nick stood, closing the door and stuffing his hands in his pockets. He looked innocent, but she knew to be more careful than believing in that.
For a moment, she sized him up, just standing there and trying not to let him know heâd caught her off guard. âWhat -- what the hell are you doing here?â She masked fear with anger. In the past, heâd always been the type to overstep boundaries⊠but heâd never done anything like this. It was a game. She was a game to him. Why did she feel so sick? Sheâd given him her new address once or twice when she was drunk and sad over him in high school, she didnât think he cared enough to keep it.
âI came to apologize.â He stayed where he was, shrugging. It was then that she noticed the new painting on the wall, right by the door. Impressionist.
She narrowed her eyes, folding her arms. âLittle late for that.â
âHey... Lizzie.â And then he stepped closer. He looked sad; sheâd never seen him look like that, not since they first started dating. Heâd told her a lot of sad stories to keep her from hating him. When he moved, his hands touched her forearms, and it felt like a ghost was on her body, nothing more than a fucking shadow. She didnât know this person. She knew what he was capable of, that was it. ââŠYou still love me. I know you do. Iâm sorry I was so bad, just. Come on.â Soft. She was angry, at him, at everyone. She was also kind of a mess, so for a moment, she just stood there, thinking about all the times she used to wish this exact moment would happen, his hands shifting to her waist, his face dipping down to her neck. Her resolve fell, for a moment. He squeezed too hard and she wondered why he came all this way, not that he didnât have the money â his family was southern royalty. Nicky did anything he wanted. Including make her hate herself.
When he moved to kiss her, she shoved him away; her nerves still wide awake from shock. Anger had forced a hand too hard, and he hit the wall where the painting hung, knocking it down to the floor with a loud thumping sound. âGet the fuck out of my house.â She whispered, looking at the floor. She was afraid to look at him. If she had, sheâd have seen that he was about to push back, the look of fury on his face so wild that it spoke more than his words ever couldâve.
Slam. Her shoulders hit the wall behind her, Nickâs hands braced against her collarbone. And then he closed his fingers around her arms, tighter and tighter until she whined. Two years ago, she wouldâve surrendered. But she was angry, and maybe a little recklessly mad, too. She tried to push again, but he was stronger, so instead, her hand struck his face as hard as she could from the way he was limiting her range of motion. She felt something in his nose move against her hand. Good, she thought, drawing blood. But she didnât have time to think much else. She found herself on the floor, elbows hitting hard against the wood. Heâd pushed her down after punching her, and for a moment she wondered, was this really happening. She felt the pain of his kicks in her stomach, her body jumping away from the floor and her voice screaming. Was that her voice? She felt like someone else. This wasnât her. She was at home, making mac and cheese. She was in the sorority house, watching Netflix with her sisters. Â This wasnât happening to her. This wasnât even happening to Nick. He never did this. Every time before, sheâd given in before things got this far. Was this who he really was? Was this who she was? Someone who couldnât tell a monster from someone who was good for her? She felt like someone else. She was someone else.
After a few minutes, she felt his hands on her neck, his body hovering over hers. She heard him ask a question, and when she couldnât answer because he was suffocating her lungs, he screamed it at her. Do you love me. She clawed with her nails at his fingers, and finally, when he stared with his face close to hers, she just nodded. Weak. He loosened his grip, letting his head fall and sighing in relief against her cheek. Â Heâd gotten what he wanted, but as always, he needed more. Pulling her body against him, he started unbuttoning her jeans and he whispered as he touched her jaw, frowning when he noticed the swelling. âI need you to say it to me, Liz. What do you want?â
If she played along, he would leave. He always left when he got what he wanted. Parker was wrong, sex did fix some things. He just didnât know. He didnât know. Lizzie swallowed, forcing the words out. âI want you. I love you, Nicky. You know I do.â She tried so hard not to cry, but she felt the pain all at once, in her body, in her heart. Circling her thumb against his temple as she cradled his face, she tried to stop gasping and sobbing as she let him do what he wanted.
This was the only way she knew how to fix things. When she was thirteen, she tried fixing a friend this way and it worked, for the night. And she didnât tell anyone, but she was trying to take her mind off of her own problems, too. She just wanted to help.
All the times with Nicky, even the time he got her drunk and it wasnât just him but his friends on her, too, she just wanted him to fucking love her. Now she was racking her brain trying to figure out why.
His hands were around her neck again as he moved in and out of her, and she knew this was just the way he did things. Her legs wrapped loosely against his sides, she scratched at his forearms but he never let go, and she knew he wouldnât. It wouldâve hurt more if she wasnât so numb, probably.
All the times with him were like this. He didnât care, he didnât even look at her. He looked at his hands. And when he flipped her, slipped himself out and started on her from behind, she screamed, closing her eyes. His hand held her forehead up, and instead of saying I love you, he always said, you love me. You love me. She felt like lead underneath him. He whispered her full name against her hair, heavy and slow. Elizabeth. And she cried.
There was one picture in her head that was pulled apart from all the rest kind of beautifully, though. At the time, it terrified her, because it wasnât what she was used to. Now, though, she remembered it, and she thought about it, and she wished for it, a really tiny, small part of her wished for it. The first time with Parker heâd looked at her and called her beautiful and sheâd cried because that had never happened before. Lizzie liked to think that a part of her had gotten so freaked out because she always knew she was kind of a goner when it came to him, like sheâd always been meant to fall for him. As stupid as that sounded. She guessed now it didnât really matter.
All she had left was fixing.
Nicky pulled her hair roughly when he was finally done. She was sure he meant it to feel affectionate, but all it made her do was feel the soreness in her neck when she was forced to roll her head back. He didnât kiss her. He slapped her ass, and whispered I knew it close to her ear before standing, pulling his pants up and walking out. She knew he would walk out. He always did. She knew she didnât have to worry about him for a while, even. She figured heâd probably even stop with the messages. For a while. If she was lucky, maybe heâd let her go permanently. Maybe. Lizzie wasnât that lucky.
Her eyes were open again. She stayed, looking out at the windows across the living room floor where sheâd ended up. It was getting closer to nighttime. She wasnât sure how long she stayed down there, but eventually, she smelled food burning and remembered that before sheâd been making dinner. So she got up, turned the stove off without putting anything away, and went to her room, the covers of her bed pulled tight over her face. She fell asleep without shedding a tear.
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