Page 3 of Welcome Home
Help me.
Please someone help me.
“Cora!” He yells, as I stare at his face in abject horror. More loud incoherent babbling filling the deathly silent room as he pins me against the dresser. The hard surface biting into my naked flesh. His deep-set honey-colored eyes burrowing into me as black dots fill my vision.
No.
The room wobbles as my body betrays me, forcing my consciousness from me. Hiding me away from terrifying things that can’t possibly be happening. From horrible things that make absolutely no sense.
2
Not so Warm Welcome
Thingscomebackslowly,one by one. Taking their time as if my mind knows letting it all come at once will buckle me under the weight. The scratchy press of the carpet underneath my damp skin. The throbbing ache in my elbow. The cool air from the fan I can’t sleep without turning my soft, pliant nipples into hardened peaks. The familiar clean, musky smell of Oliver. The low, concerned ramblings of his voice. His warm, large hands pressing on my face in a weird way that makes me want to swat at them.
Oliver.
My eyes snap open, another scream building in my throat before he clamps his hand over my mouth. “Cora, hey it’s just me. Relax.” My body threatens to shut down all over again as he shoots me a shaky smile. Those horrible honey-colored eyes staring at me with no small amount of concern. “I need to look at your arm. It’s bleeding.”
My eyes dart away from his as I stare at the blood smeared carpet. Flashes of terrible things start my panic all over again as I buck underneath him. My head lolls for a moment towards the bathroom, visions of it far from its current clean state swell in my stomach. Smeared blood across white tile. I yelp as his grip on me tightens, my fight or flight taking back over. Punching, kicking and thrashing as he settles his weight harder between my legs. My body revolting at the feeling of him there. I gag and his eyes go wide, quickly removing his hand, slamming me to an upright position as I empty the contents of my stomach.
“Cora?” He stares at me apprehensively like I'm a wild animal as he reaches out wiping my lips clean with the palm of his hand before staring at the spittle covering his fingers. His eyes find mine again, taking in the horrified expression on my face as he clears his throat, wiping them on his jeans. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” I don’t fight as he lifts me from the ground, cradling me tightly to his broad chest like you would a frightened child.
I am frightened.
Tears fall in shocked hoards as he sits me on the toilet seat, heading towards the small linen closet in the bathroom to get his first aid kit. I swallow back a sob, trying to stifle every strange sound that tries to escape after it as I watch him.
Oliver?
He kneels before me, flashing me a warm, reassuring smile as he lifts my elbow, ignoring the way my body flinches away from him. A flutter of something crosses those deceptively warm eyes. Something not at all warm. My chest heaves, my lungs trying to keep up with the rest of my body. My mind seemingly content to take a backseat for the moment. More crimson tinged images flash before my eyes as he lifts my elbow expertly cleaning the deep cut there. “Shit, you need stitches.” He mumbles half to himself as he discards the gauze, grabbing out more things from his kit. I don’t react when he hands me a washrag from the basket beside the counter, just holding it limply in my fingers before letting it fall to the floor. Like my brain tapped out and unable to comprehend what the hell it was for. I wait for it, the snide remark. A new creative and roundabout way to call me an idiot, but it never comes. He works his jaw the way he does when he’s focused, grabbing it off the floor before bringing it to my lips. “You’ll want to bite down on this. I don’t have anything to numb you with here. Unless you’d rather go to the hospital.”
I shake my head violently, opening my mouth as he pushes the rag in, allowing me to bite down on it. My body operating with shell-shocked autopilot. Do I want to go to the hospital? We can’t. He can’t. What would they even say? What would he say? A whimper leaves my throat as he cleans it deeper. “I'm sorry I scared you. I didn’t mean for it to go like this. I tried to find you earlier, but you were running, I guess.” He half laughs as he sticks the needle through the skin, making me whimper again. He casts me a sympathetic look that seems so unnatural on his chiseled face.
The bread…he’s been here the whole time?
“By the time I got back, you’d beat me home. I tried to wait downstairs, but I needed to see you, Cora.” More bile creeps up my throat as I push the rag out with my tongue.
Sucking in a sharp breath as he makes a pass with the needle. “Did anyone see you?” I ask, my throat raspy and dry from screaming.
He works his jaw harder. “No.”
It’s a nonsensical question and a nonsensical answer.
We don’t speak, but by the time he’s done mending my arm, I'm shaking violently. Uncontrollable tremors ripping through my body with enough force to chatter my teeth. He shuts off the shower so casually, something I’ve seen him do hundreds of times before, wrapping me tightly in a throw blanket. My shaking notches up to a new height as he cradles me, heading into the bedroom. His soft touch feels like sandpaper on my skin. My breathing is rapid and unsteady. “I think I'm going crazy.”
He tugs me tightly to his chest, forcing my head to the crook of his neck, his palms making gentle passes in my wet hair. “No love, you’re just in shock. Take a deep breath for me, okay? I'm home. Everything will be okay now.”
No. I don’t think it will.
I don’t know how much time passes while he holds me there, instructing me on how to relax when he’s the thing that’s refusing to let that happen. This feels like a nightmare, that if I pinch myself hard enough, I'll wake up. My head will be on my cool pillow, sprawled out on my king-sized bed…alone. When exhaustion slows my shaking, his grip on me loosens. As if it was his hold alone that kept me in my shocked state, now the flood gates bellow open. Suddenly, everything that happened over the last six months kick me back to reality, shoving me from the numb comfort my mind had cocooned me in. Towards the light, the man holding me, the impossibility of it all. I jerk myself free from him, still wrapped in the gray plush blanket. It bows out behind me as I rush down the hallway. Like the main character in some period drama, except I'm not. I’ve never been the main character and there is nothing glamorous or alluring about this. I skid to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, falling to my knees, my senses on a hairpin trigger as he stops at the top. His eyes flickering to where mine are glued.
“Please, just come back to bed.” He said please, but it wasn’t a request. There's a stern and commanding note to his voice I’ve never heard there before. Sure, he’s always been bossy, but this… sends a chill up my spine.
I rub my thumb roughly against the tiny notch at the bottom of the post, fighting the urge to gag as I force myself to my feet. Paying little attention to his quickly approaching footsteps, I bolt to the back door, wrenching it open. His hands find me again as I sob, staring out the back door at my wilting flower garden. “What’s happening to me?”
He turns me to face him, his eyes landing on the garden as the corners of his mouth pull up ever so slightly. He reaches up, wiping at my constant flow of tears, shushing me gently. “I hate it when you cry. I hate that it’s my fault.”
“Get the fuck away from me.” I warn, taking a step back towards the doorway. This is wrong. Something is very fucking wrong. I need to get out. To get help.
