I want to trust him. I want to push these doubts away and just enjoy being with him. But the lie sits between us like a stone, impossible to ignore. Just like the missed messages and calls on his phone.
No matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise, I know something isn’t right.
And she needs to leave us the fuck alone.
47
BRUISES FADE BUT THE STORIES THEY TELL LINGER
The Past
Lawyer: So, you’re accusing my client of raping you. And part of that evidence is the bruises on your body. Is that correct?
Me: Yes.
Lawyer: And you moved a week before, right?
Me: That’s correct.
Lawyer: But, as a redhead with pale skin, would you say you bruise easily?
Me: Not really… I haven’t noticed that before.
Lawyer: It’s well known that people with your complexion bruise easily.
Me: …
Lawyer: So, given that, isn’t it morelikely that the bruises were caused by the fact you moved heavy boxes, rather than the allegations you’ve made against my client?
Me: I didn’t rip my vagina and my anus when I moved boxes, no.
The Present
A day or two go by, relatively uneventful. Timmy’s phone stays quiet. Good, finally she maybe got the hint and will stop intruding on us.
But now, here I am, staring at my left arm, covered in splotches of gray and purple. My entire upper arm looks like I just got out of a paintball fight I never signed up for. I trace my fingers along the tender skin, wincing. It looks like someone grabbed me and squeezed hard—like the bruises on my legs from all those years ago.
Timmy, lounging on the bed, laughs. “Haha, I’ve been poking you so much to get your attention I’ve left bruises on you.”
I force a smile, though my stomach twists uncomfortably.It’s fine,I tell myself. I know I bruise easily. It’s nothing.
But the sight of the bruises tugs at something deep inside, like a loose thread unraveling a tightly woven fabric. The memories I’ve worked so hard to suppress start clawing their way to the surface. My mind drifts back to those awful photos—evidence taken after the assault. I remember the ugly purple and gray marks on my legs, the ones the lawyer tried to explain away with his slick words about moving boxes and pale skin.These bruises don’t look so different,I realize, my pulse quickening.
But thisiscompletely different.Right?
My PTSD is just making me correlate two completely separate things. Timmy didn’t hurt me. He was just being playful—excited, even. He was showing me the Cay, poking me to get my attention, sharing his joy. That’s not abuse. It’s… affection.Isn’t it?It wasjustpoking.
Timmy catches me staring at the marks on my arm. “Aw, babe,” he says, his grin widening. “I really didn’t mean to bruise you up so bad. I forget how strong I am sometimes. I’ll try to be gentler.”
He reaches out and strokes my arm lightly, as if that erases the purples and blues blooming under my skin. “I would never hurt you on purpose,” he says softly, brushing my hair behind my ear. His eyes, wide and sincere, make me want to believe him.This is just how he shows love and enthusiasm.
I laugh, though it feels brittle in my throat. “Just maybe don’t do it so hard next time, okay?”
“Deal,” he says, still smiling. “I mean, I wanted a redhead with creamy, milky white skin and freckles. I didn’t know you’d bruise like a banana,” he teases, and before I can stop him, he pokes the exact same spot again.
It’s playful—it’ssupposedto be playful. But the poke lands heavier this time, like a little jab to my soul.
The room feels different now, like the air has thickened with something I can’t quite name.