I wipe it off with the edge of my blanket, refusing to engage. Somehow, miraculously, I fall asleep again.
But peace is fleeting.
I’m jarred awake by the sound of his slurred voice on the phone. “Yeah, she’s acting crazy. She’s attacking me,” he says, his tone deliberately calm, his words dripping with malice.
Me:
He’s lost his mind. I was lying here asleep, and he called the cops on me.
Alice:
You HAVE to start making your own reports.
Otherwise, all they have are HIS statements.
The door swishes and beeps. Timmy has gone again.
Good riddance.
About fifteen minutes later, there’s a loud knock on the door. “Police,” a deep voice announces.
Clad in only a sports bra and shorts, I answer the door, groggy and disoriented. I yawn as the officers greet me.
“Listen, we got a complaint,” one officer says.
“I know,” I reply with a sigh. “I heard him on the phone. I was sleeping, his call woke me up, and none of what he said was true.”
“Why does he have scratches on him?” the same officer asks, smirking.
“I don’t know,” I shrug. “He bashes himself up against the reef shelf and stuff, and runs around wearing only board shorts, as you can see. He’s always got scratches and cuts.”
The officer glances at my hands. “You don’t even have long fingernails,” he observes.
“This guy is always drunk,” another officer says, shaking his head. “You need to leave him.”
I nod, though the weight of their advice crushes me. I know he’s right. Everyone is right. But leaving feels insurmountable.
“We’ll go talk to him and then we’ll be back.”
I nod, thank them, and shut the door.
Me:
I feel dumb.
Alice:
You aren’t dumb. You were duped.
I sigh.
Me:
Yeah. How dare I believe someone would care for me so much? Ugh.
Alice:
That isn’t foolish.