She never knew that diamonds hitting the floor would sound so much like rain, but when the tiara flew from carefully braided hair onto the wooden bridal suite floor, she would’ve sworn it was pouring outside. With shaking hands, she reached for her cheek where he had struck her. It smarted, along with the place where her hip had met the floor.
“I told you not to fucking come in here, Clarice!” Dayton towered over her, a black shock of hair falling over his face. His pupils were pinpricks, so small they looked nearly non-existent. A white powder rimmed his nose, remnants from whatever he was snorting when she walked in, searching for her misplaced bouquet.
Wrenching her by her braid, he dragged her tense body across the floor. The sound of tearing fabric filled her ears as the bustle of the three-thousand dollar Sophia Tolli dress snagged on a rough board. He didn’t stop. Clarice’s scalp was screaming in protest, but she only whimpered as he slammed her into the wall.
“Ungf,” she moaned, colliding face-first with the baseboard. She tried desperately to scramble to her feet, but her ankles buckled at the height of her heels.
“Stay. Down. Bitch.” Each word punctuated with the toe of Dayton’s Armani shoe slamming into her ribcage. White-hot pain shot through her. A sob bubbled from her lips. He kept kicking.
“Dayton, please, stop.” She screamed, no longer able to bear it. She held her hands up in defense and surrender, the pain nearly intolerable. “I love you," she whispered, begging him."Please.”
Dayton stilled momentarily, wiping his nose on his dress shirt and leaving a small trickle of blood on the cuff. His breathing evened and he stooped down to cradle Clarice in his arms. He carried her across the room, depositing her on the white “L” couch on the far side of the suite. Clarice stayed as still as possible, afraid to set him off again.
It could have been worse. She grimaced, thinking about the pound of cover-up she had to use on her shoulders that morning. The strapless gown revealed too much of their conversation about calling off the wedding from the week before.
Dayton reached for her face, but Clarice couldn’t stifle her flinch. His outstretched fingers hung in the air like a shoe stuck in tar. His momentary pause and temporary look of confusion was quickly replaced by a flash of anger. Quickly Clarice pushed her stinging cheek into his hand, nuzzling him and trying to ignore the biting pain she felt with each breath. His mood brightened, light coming over his eyes. He could change in an instant. Pulling her into his lap, Dayton sat down and tucked her like a frightened animal beneath his arms.
“Baby, I’m sorry,” He cooed at her, lovingly. “I’m so sorry. Look at you,” he tucked a strand of hair that had come loose from the braid behind her ear. “Look what you made me do…” A tear trickled down his cheek and Clarice reached up, wiping it away with cold, shaking fingers.
“I’m sorry Dayton,” She choked, fighting the discomfort. “I didn’t know you’d be in the bridal suite. I thought you’d be up in the loft with the boys.” Why was he in here?
“Oh, sweetie. I don’t keep you around to think. I told you not to come in here, didn’t I?” He gripped her chin between his thumb and forefinger a little more forcefully than necessary and tilted her face to meet his. Clarice felt anger swell inside her badly bruising chest.
You don’t keep me around to think? But she said nothing. She couldn’t recall him saying not to come into the bridal suite.
“Yes, I’m sorry.” She breathed. He kissed her forehead and got up, leaving her writhing on the couch.
“See you downstairs in twenty, baby.” Two blue orbs stared into her.
She pulled a tissue from a box on the counter and swiped it quickly underneath her eye. Black smudges of mascara and eyeliner covered the tissue.
“Fuck.” While she was searching the drawers of the bridal suite vanity for a tube of mascara, there was a knock on the door. “Give me a second!” The door opened anyway.
“Hey Clar—Holy shit!” Amanda, her matron of honor, rushed over to the vanity, taking in Clarice’s appearance. “What happened to you?” Clarice held up her hand, wincing. She knew she looked rough. Her makeup was smudged and her hair was a mess and a bruise was forming on her right cheek. She looked down at her torn dress and fidgeted with a loose button.
Breathe, Clarice. But Amanda already knew.
“I knew it. I KNEW it. That fucker is going to die. Adam and I had a feeling about him but we trusted your judgment… That’s stupid slick bastard!” She whipped out her cellphone, punching in her husband’s number, but Clarice reached out and grabbed the phone, much to the protest of her ribs.
“No. Amanda, we can’t.” She took a painful breath. “I need to go and I need to go quietly. Since you’re here you can help me, but I can’t marry that man.” Amanda quieted, sitting down.
“Clare, we need to get you to a hospital. You can barely sit up.” Her voice was soft, soothing, and made tears well up in Clarice’s eyes, but she shook her head.
“Later,” she whispered “He’s expecting me downstairs in five minutes. I need to go.” Amanda paused only momentarily and then set off around the room, picking up the honeymoon suitcase. Fishing out some sneakers, leggings and a sweatshirt, she tossed them onto the couch.
“Let me help you out of the dress,” Amanda quickly unzipped the back of the gown, gasping at the bruising underneath. There were fresh ones and ones from weeks of mood swings. Knowingly, she said nothing but as Clarice turned around she saw tears in Amanda’s eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Clarice said nothing, but limped over to the sofa in her bridal lingerie. She tried to pull the sweatshirt over her bony torso, but the pain was excruciating.
“Clare, let me.” After letting Amanda dress her like a small child, she was exhausted and starting to crumble.
Just a little bit longer.
She grabbed the suitcase and Amanda opened the suite door.
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