Page 52 of Liberating Bells
“Yeah, but it means everything.”
18
IZABEL
“Are you sure you’re okay?”Mark asks me timidly as I step out of my bathroom the following morning. He decided to stay over last night, and I hate myself for letting him.
I stare at my fiancé for a moment and wrap the towel tighter around my torso. I hope he can see the bright purple bruise located at the base of my neck. I hope it hurts him just as much as he hurt me.
After striking him, he finally let me go and I fell to the ground, utterly defeated.
And then he was there. As if a flip had been switched, his anger turned into concern. Mark fell to his knees, careful to give me enough distance as he told me repeatedly how sorry he was.
“Izabel,” he gasped. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. When I saw those text messages, I just lost control. You know how I get when it comes to him. You shouldn’t have been texting him behind my back. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Mark’s breathing was almost as labored as mine, and he hesitantly reached out a hand, his fingers trying to brush my skin. I cried out and swiped at his hand, feeling my skin hit his. I didn’t want him touching me. Not while I was still workingthrough the aftermath of the events that had just transpired. He jerked his hand away from me and paused.
A moment later, he pulled me into his lap and rocked me back and forth. My body sagged with submission, and I allowed him to comfort me. My tears turned to sobs as he held me close. When they subsided, Mark picked me up off the floor, carrying me into my bedroom, setting me onto my bed—the mattress sagging under my weight. Mark’s fingers went to the zipper on my dress and pulled it down. I let him lift the dress off me, the fabric rustling as it fell to the floor.
He sat on the bed behind me, his lips pressing against the edge of my shoulder, then in the hollow space of my collarbone. As his kisses trailed up my neck to my jaw, I could feel his hand snake around to my bare belly. His fingers traced along the edge of my panties, dipping under the thin seam.
I lurched away from him, my skin crawling from the contact. “No,” I snapped as I pulled my knees up to my chest. Sex was not going to fix this. Not this time.
Mark looked at me sheepishly for a second before scooting off the bed and reaching for my brush on the dresser. I watched him like a hawk as he held it up like a peace offering. He crawled back on the bed behind me and ran the bristles through my hair.
I was still stiff as a board, but I started to relax as the brush against my scalp soothed me on a more intimate level. He dragged the brush through my hair, whispering sweet words and apologies. His kind actions brought on another wave of tears that I let consume me and drag me into unconsciousness.
This morning when I woke up, Mark was already awake, gently running his hand over my hair. I stretched underneath the covers and then rolled out of bed. He gave me space as I walked into the bathroom and flicked the light on. As soon as my eyes found my reflection in the mirror, my stomach dropped.
The red and purple bruise took me by surprise. I didn’t think it would be that bad. My hands shook as I traced the outline of Mark’s fingerprints on my neck. Pulling myself away from the reflection, I turned the shower on and put the water on the highest setting. Stepping under the spray, I let it burn away the events of last night until my skin was bright red. As I let the hot water cleanse some of my shame, I replayed last night, going through different scenarios and wondering what would have happened if I’d responded differently.
I found it cathartic, pretending that I was strong enough to stand up to him. Even if it was in my imagination, I found the exercise to be a good funnel of my anger. It helped me process it better, gave me clarity.
Now, I stare at Mark wordlessly. I know my skin is blotchy from the hot water and that there is an ugly bruise around my neck. A bruise thatheput there. The sight of Mark still in my bed has bile rising in my throat, and I’m suddenly spinning around and running back into the bathroom to spew up my dinner from last night.
He said it wouldn’t happen again. Hepromised.
Even if I set myself up for his anger, he promised it would never happen again and he lied.
I feel Mark crouch beside me by the toilet, pulling my wet hair away from my face as I gag and throw up again. He rubs slow circles on my back, and as much as I don’t want to admit it, I find the action comforting.
When I decide I’m not going to throw up anymore, I fall against him. He wraps his arms around me, holding me tight. Mark’s hand brushes over my forehead, which is beaded with sweat from the vomiting, and presses a kiss into my hair. Sighing, I let the kiss soothe me.
As much as I love Mark, those are not the kinds of feelings running through me right now.
I pull away from him, re-wrap my towel tightly against my chest, and walk back into my bedroom. With a heavy exhale, I begin digging through my dresser and closet to find a suitable outfit for my outing with Mark’s mom.
Mark steps into the room after me. His movements are careful, as if he’s walking on eggshells, afraid of my reaction.
Except he should know by now that detonating into a fit of rage is morehis thing.
“What are you doing?” he asks me quietly.
I’ve selected a modest outfit: a pair of blue dress pants that go to my ankles, a white blouse, and a blazer. I double-check to make sure nothing is wrinkled, otherwise, I’ll never hear the end of it.
“I’m getting ready for my day with your mother,” I tell him, my tone flat.
Mark comes and sits on the edge of my bed as I pull on my bra and panties. “I can call her if you want. Maybe you should just stay in today.”
