Page 23 of Somewhere Without You
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
The blows came so fast, they blurred together. After a while, I didn’tevenfeelthem anymore.Justa searing, blinding white pain, flooding every inch of me, drowning everything else out.
Jackson hovered over me, his face so close Icouldsmellthe sour, rancid heat of his breath. Hewasyelling, but his wordswerelostbeneath the roar in my head. Itwasas if hewerespeaking through water, muffled and distant.
Ifelthis fingers close around my throat, squeezing the life from me. My lungs burned, gasping for airthatwouldn’t come. Blood thundered in my ears, drowning out everything—my fear, my pain, the world itself.
Thiswasit. Hewasgoing to kill me.
I clawed at his hands, but itwaslike fighting against stone. My effortswereuseless.
His eyes were wild, desperation turning his grip to iron. “Lookwhat you made me do, Emily. Why? Why would you make me do this? I love you, don’t you understand?”
“I. . . love. . . you too,”I coughed, voice rasping.“Please. . . don’t. . .”
Jacksonwascrying now, his tears falling onto my face, mingling with the blood. His sobswerea bitter mix of rage and sorrow.Buthis grip didn’t loosen.
“I’m sorry,”he choked out.
Andjustlikethat, the world around me plunged into darkness.
Eleven
Peoplethinkleavingiseasy. They believe that after the first insult, the first blow, there’s no room for second chances.
Butthose people are wrong.
I used to think the same way. I didn’tknowanyone whohadbeen in a violent relationship, butI’dreadbooks,watchedmovies, and seen plenty of true crime documentaries. They always ended in tragedy—fatalities, notjustbruises or broken bones.
I used to roll my eyes, thinking those womenwereweak, cowardly.
Now, Iknewbetter.
Iknewhow easy itwasto justify bad behavior—to pull excuses from thin air, letting them slip off your tongue in sweet, comforting lies.
Iknewhow easy itwasto turn a blind eye, to believe every word they said—thatthey loved you,thatthey’dnever do it again. Iknewhow easy itwasto convince yourselfthatitwasn’ttheir fault.
You made them do it.
The monitor next to me beepedsteadily. My eyes flickered open, struggling to focus on the blinding white walls of the hospital room. The world swam around me, the sharp scent of antiseptic cutting through the haze.
Every muscle in my body screamed. My armswerecoveredin angry welts, a map of hurt etched in red.
They were marks of anger. Marks of rage. Marks of hate.
“Emily,”my sister’s voice, thick with emotion, broke through the stillness. She leaned forward, her hands enveloping mine.Therewasso much she wanted to say, but instead, a strangled sob stole the words from her throat.
I tried to speak. “It’s—” My voice came out raspy and unrecognizable. Flashes of Jackson’s hands around my neck danced before my eyes—the crushing pressure, the frantic battle for air. The factthatIcouldevenutter a wordwas a miracle.
“It’s okay,”I managed, forcing the words through the pain.“I’m okay.”
“It’s not okay,”Katherine insisted, her voice shaking.“None of this is okay.” She pressed her face into my hair, her breath hitching. “This is my fault. This is all my fault.”
“None of this. . .wasyour fault,”I gasped, each word a monumental effort.“Where’s Jackson?”
Katherine’s griefinstantlymorphed into hatred.“Hiding,”she hissed, her face flushing with anger.“Andifthatpiece of shitknowswhat’sgoodfor him, he’ll stay hidden.”
My mind flickered to New York.“I’m so sor—”
