Shame. It seemed like such a small, insignificant word when someone murmured it, but the implications behind the emotion were devastating. Never before had he experienced an emotion so powerful before. As if he were covered with a thick layer of black, sticky, rancid gunk that oozed with stench of utmost humiliation. The ache in his deadening heart was unimaginable, as if he were suffering a thousand deaths over. Miserable deaths. Hidden, disgracefull secrets that ate him alive in every spare moment, surrounding him in an overly dark depression. It was like a powerful life force was being sucked from a small incision into his emotional armor. The pressure of such a large emotion being pulled from such a small area was overpowering, causing him to sink to his knees in sheer desperation and pain. However, the wounds inflicted were anything but small.
Goddamn, was she a tiny thing! She barely met his chest. He always had to stoop down and heft her up to press a kiss to her lips. He always teased her that she could have barely weighed a hundred pounds, even when she was soaking wet. Who ever thought she could have so much power hidden in such a petite form? Much less behind a powerfull fist? That had stunned him. The way her fingers clenched into a tight ball of a fist before immediately striking out against the hollow of his jaw. No warning whatsoever. Falling to the thickly carpeted floor as an explosion of pain radiated through his jaw and down his spine, he couldn’t even fathom the possibility that she had hit him. Wet warmth poured from his split lip and the taste of metallic was unmistakable. It still didn’t seem possible. But when he saw the baseball bat coming down at him, he knew.
Holding his right arm up to brace against the blow, he released painful yelp as the bone gave way. The sound of splintering bone was like a gunshot echoing in his ears. Falling backward, his pained whines became muffled against his throat with a sharp gasp when the baseball bat was pressed against his windpipe. Constricting his airway, she descended upon him like a swarm of blood lusting locusts. Sharp claws shredding every inch of his body and furious pinpoint of painful explosions created an excruciating burn throughout his entire body. He could even feel his face start to swell. The lack of oxygen caused him to fidget like a newborn babe, but also rendered him helpless, the only sound escape was a few tight, wet gasps for air.
He thought he was going to die. He was certain of it. But the sound of his clothes ripping and giving way from his body had come as a frightful shock. There was a period of silence that followed till he felt her lips surround his flaccid member. Biting down hard on the soft flesh, she pressed the bat deeper into his throat when he started to squirm fearfully. Then began the furious rocking of her bare hips against his, attempting to work him into a frenzy. He tried all his might to fight her, but his body reacted violently to her demands. Being aroused while being raped... Perfect…
The reason? He had forgotten to call her and say ‘I love you’ after a late night interview, because he had simply been exhausted. He figured he could simply call her in the morning. And, like always, he had thought wrong.
“Mr. Smith.”
He blanked at the sound of the name, not recognizing it for what it was worth. He had already been ushered into an examination room and seen by a doctor, though that had merely been a haze of incomprehensible words. He remembered the prick of needle into his lip, but nothing else. Continuing to stare at his scuffed hands, he huddled on the side of the examination table. Bent over himself as if he were a cowering animal.
“Mr. Smith?”
Who the Hell was Mr. Smith?
“Mr. Carter?”
Looking up, Nick’s dark cobalt eyes focused and he immediately remembered the name he had scrawled onto the admission sheet of the Emergency Room. Mr. John Smith. It sounded inconspicuous enough and would cause no warning flags to arise in the system. No media. Numbly nodding his head in agreement with the second name, he was surprised to find a warm smile reciprocated.
“I thought you looked familiar,” the nurse confided, shutting the door to the examination room behind her. She clutched the metal chart to her chest as she stepped inside, a layer of various medical products resting upon it like some tray. Dumping them onto the bedside table, she held out her hand, but pulled back slightly when Nick flinched. “I’m Roxanne, your nurse. Roxie for short, if you like?”
“Hi,” he murmured softly, regretting the over exaggerated response to her friendliness. Forcing himself to sit upright, he became aware of the freezing cold that radiated up his right arm from the bucket of ice it had been submerged into. Frowning, he felt the pull of stitches in his lip. How the Hell would he explain this to the guys?
“Can I call you Nick?” Roxanne questioned, carefully pushing aside some of the ice packs to alleviate the obviously painful pressure exploding in his arm.
“Nick’s fine,” he promised, looking to his grossly swollen arm with a grimace. Hearing her soft coo of sympathy, he looked up to see her scribbling something in his chart. For a moment, he wondered what she was possibly writing about him, but when she glanced up from her notes, his thoughts stopped. Her warm aquamarine eyes reminded him of the deepest seas warmed by the bright sunrays; the perfect water to dive into from one of his prized boats. Her nose was small and rounded; one that he could see flushed red from the cold of a winter night in the northern-most part of the states. Her soft pink lips were lusciously full and coated with what he assumed was a fruity lip-gloss; the corners seemed to turn slightly upward as if she were always smiling. Her straight strawberry blonde locks were tied into a high ponytail for a long day of work and still managed to fall past her shoulders, but he could see small tendrils that curled when they fell from the rest, telling him a secret that she straight-ironed her hair. Her figure was rounded with soft, subtle curves that seemed to sweeten with each delicate movement of her body. She was tall, perhaps she’d reach the top of his shoulders if he stood, though he knew already that she’d fit perfectly, tucked underneath his chin. Looking to her left hand, he was amazed to find no ring staking its claim on her fourth digit. If it had been a few years ago, he would have been adamant in seeing that she take his number. But, now, he just sat there, dumbstruck.
“Is anyone here with you today, Nick?”
“Nah, came by myself.”
“Well… The doctor told me that he was in to see you. We’re going to get some X-Rays of that arm, though by the looks of it, I’m sure it’s broken. I’m also going to clean up the rest of your wounds, grab an ice pack, and be your buddy for the day,” she offered when he didn’t seem to want to speak anymore. He offered a small nod of compliance, watching her reach for a pair of gloves from a nearby box.
“Roxanne?” he suddenly called.
“Yeah?”
“Be my buddy?”
“The ER’s kind of slow today, so I offered to follow you through all the departments today. Looks like you need a friend.”
“I look that fucking pitiful?”
Roxanne laughed softly. “You’ve even got yourself a sense of humor.”
“I’m not just a pretty face, y’know,” Nick mumbled, leaning back slightly when she started to clean the deep scratches in his chest. He winced at the sting of the hydrogen peroxide and felt his stomach churn at the powerful aroma of cleaning supplies, but was more fearful of the woman touching him. The realization that he was scared of a woman sent another knife plunging into his decaying heart. What man, who was over six feet tall and solid muscle, was afraid of a damn woman?
But then he glanced at his reflection in the nearby mirror and realized why. The left side of his face was an array of dark coloring ranging from the darkest of blacks to blues and purples. The bruising then followed underneath his left eye and the swelling made it difficult to see. His bottom lip had been ripped open to the point of needing stitches to be closed. The front of his throat was marred with an unusually shaped bruise from the pressure of the bat. Then his chest was littered with bruises, oozing scratches, and bite marks. Thank God he had been allowed to keep his jeans on; he knew he’d be pissing blood for at least a week considering the damage.
“You seem like you’re in deep thought, Nick.”
“Yeah…”
“So, how are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a fucking bus and then the driver reversed and tried it again.”
“What happened?”
“It was an accident.”
“What kind of accident?”
“I fell down the stairs. Mostly hit on my left side.”
“Must be some pretty fucked up stairs,” Roxanne stated easily, causing Nick’s head to jerk up from his steady concentration on her work. When their eyes met, she offered a sympathetic glance. “Nick… There is no possible way that stairs could have done this kind of damage. You see, your face is bruised on the left side, but you have bruises to the front of your chest and your right arm is broken. These deep scratches down your chest are perfectly spaced. Seems to me someone hurt you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Who hit you, Nick?”
‘My girlfriend,’ Nick thought, though he offered her a ridiculous glance, as if the very idea was illogical. “No one hit me.”
“I know the signs and symptoms of abuse.”
“I’m not abused.”
“Nick--”
“No one hit me, okay? I was clumsy and I fell down some fucking stairs. It happens all the time,” Nick stressed with a growl. Like she could even begin to understand what had happened. She acted as if she knew him intimately. As if she could read his innermost secrets. But she couldn’t even begin to fathom the pain of his relationship nor the repercussions of speaking out.
“Men can be abused just as easily as woman can be abused. Abuse isn’t about size, gender, or strength; it’s about power and control. You shouldn’t be ashamed to report it,” Roxanne explained softly while disposing of the left over supplies she had used to bandage the most serious of wounds. After she finished washing her hands, she plucked a business card and pen from the back pocket of her scrub bottoms. Scrawling a phone number on the back, she handed it over to Nick.
“Look, I told you that--”
“It’s not some kind of abuse hotline. This is my personal business card. It has all the numbers where you can reach me. Call me when you need to talk. Day or night. No matter what the time. Just call when you’re ready to talk and get some help. I’ll be waiting.”
