Page 99 of Liberating Bells
He moves toward me and rolls up the sleeve of my shirt. There, through the belly of my deltoid muscle, is a clear path. It’s superficial, so the bullet didn’t pierce, just grazed by.
“We’ll have the paramedics take a look at you.”
I sit there, letting the adrenaline settle in my body. As the minutes tick by, my shoulder starts to ache more and more. My body trembles uncontrollably and my head pounds. Finally, a paramedic comes by and patches me up. He cleans the wound, determines it isn’t anything serious, and then throws a bandage over it, giving me brief instructions on when to change it. Then he does a quick head exam, using a light to check my pupil response, and asks me a ton of questions about symptoms before concluding that I don’t have a severe concussion.
The paramedics gather their things together and then pile into the ambulance before driving off. The cops inside the house make their appearance again, pushing Mark ahead of them. He’s handcuffed as well, and he shoots me a glare as he walks by. They direct him to one of their patrol cars and secure him in the backseat. The officer tears out of the neighborhood, taking Mark with him.
“You can let your guy go,” one female cop says to the officer babysitting me.
The officer helps me stand up and then unlocks the cuffs from around my wrists. I rub at the skin and offer him thanks. He pats me on my good shoulder and tells me to hang tight. My eyes find Izabel again, who stands when she sees me free.
Izabel runs at me full speed, and then launches herself into my arms as soon as I’m close enough. Her legs wrap around my waist, and she locks her ankles above my hips. I hold her tightly to me, closing my eyes and breathing a sigh of relief that she’s not hurt. Izabel’s face buries into my neck, and I feel my skin moisten with her tears.
After a few moments, I set her down on her feet, but she still grips onto my shirt, not wanting distance between us. My hands come up to cup her face, and I look her over, making sure she’s not injured. Her sapphire blue eyes are still brimming with tears, but they sparkle at me. Moving my hands from her cheek up to her scalp, I thread my fingers through her hair. I smash our lips together, finally. Izabel moans into my mouth as if she’s been yearning for this too.
As I kiss her, the world around us seems to disappear. All that matters now is that she’s in my arms, and she’s safe. Somehow, we made it through, and now, we can finally start our lives together.
36
IZABEL
The room issilent as I stare at my therapist. She looks right back at me, a soft smile on her lips. She hasn’t pushed me yet this session, but she’s there observing my every move, and I can tell she knows something’s not right—the clock ticks by the seconds.
“Ryan and I are supposed to go to see my parents today,” I finally tell her, fingering the threads of a blanket that is draped over the couch. “We’re having a sit-down so I can break the news to them about what happened. The truth.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile. “That sounds like it might not be the easiest conversation to have.”
“Yeah, well, I think we have to have it. I mean, if I’m going to still be invited to family events like Thanksgiving or Christmas.” I grimace, remembering how once upon a time, I had no qualms being open with my parents, but now the thought makes me want to vomit.
The therapist smiles and waits for me to continue as if she knows this is just a preamble.
"Do you have plans for Thanksgiving this year?" she asks me when I don’t offer anything else up.
I pick at a piece of lint and nod my head. "Yeah, I think we're all going to Ryan's parents’ house. My family will be over as well."
"That sounds like a lot of fun. Things must be going well, then."
I take a deep breath and shake my head. “I just keep feeling like I’m waiting for the second shoe to drop.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“It just seems like it was too easy,” I correct my statement when she raises an eyebrow. “I mean, I can’t believe it’s all over. I still keep waiting for Mark to show up at work. Or jump me when I turn a corner.” I take a deep breath. “I’m terrified that he’s going to hurt Ryan or me, or any of the people I love.”
Mark was able to pay the amount that was posted as bail. At his first arraignment hearing, Mark pleaded "not guilty," of course, though the judge still hit him with a temporary order of protection so he couldn't contact me. And we haven’t heard anything since then. Somehow, that’s even more frightening than if he were still lurking around.
“How are your nightmares?”
I scoff under my breath. How are they? They’re terrible. For the past seven weeks, ever since the showdown at Mark’s, I’ve woken up each night to Ryan shaking me awake, trying to convince me that everything’s okay. Each night after I wake up drenched in a cold sweat, he wraps me up tightly in his arms and whispers that he's here, he's got me. It takes a few moments of me lying there against him, his hand running over my hair, to fully recenter myself.
It’s always the same dream.
Mark holding a gun to Ryan’s head, and Ryan telling me to run, go. I turn to leave, but then the gun goes off, and I spin back around. Ryan’s crumpled on the ground. I know he’s dead, but there’s no gunshot. Then Mark turns the gun around on me.
That’s usually when Ryan wakes me up. The searing pain of him dying in my dreams has me screaming at the top of my lungs and thrashing through the sheets. It’s gotten to the point where I’m afraid to go to sleep at night because I know within a few hours I’ll be screaming my head off. And I feel bad for waking Ryan up every night.
Ryan’s started developing dark circles under his eyes, and I hate that they’re because of me. He always soothes me when I apologize, saying he’s glad he’s here with me. That I have nothing to apologize for.
“I still get them,” I tell my therapist. “Every night.”
