Page 80 of A Stop in Time
Once I muster enough strength to continue to the bathroom, I turn on the shower and carefully remove my clothing. Stepping into the hot spray, its warmth revives me, eliminating a strange chill that’s settled beneath my skin at waking up outside.
I shampoo my hair, ensuring it’s free of all debris, and run the bar of soap over my skin, biting back the urge to hiss when some of my wounds reopen. It isn’t until I’ve wrapped the towel around me and stepped onto the bathmat that I glance in the bathroom mirror.
My knees threaten to give way as I gasp at the sight of my reflection. “Holy fuck.” What the hell did I crash into last night?
I lean closer to inspect myself in the mirror, tenderly tracing a fingertip along the rim of purple that now colors the top of my cheekbone beneath my right eye. When I collapsed to the ground, did my face slam into the rock I discovered earlier?
Frustration and fear vie for top spot in my emotional turmoil. This sleepwalking shit is a damn curse. And what if something even worse happens next time? What if I sleepwalk into the middle of a busy intersection or even onto the interstate?
What if I’m found by the wrong person? At the possibility, my mouth immediately goes so dry it competes with the desert, the what-ifs nearly paralyzing me with fear while worry torments me.
The mirror showcases my bruised face but also brings attention to two of my now bleeding fingers. I bend down, ignoring the slight discomfort in my side, and grab the small first aid kit from beneath the vanity.
Setting it on the counter, I open the lid and rifle through it for the necessary size of bandages for these two stubborn cuts on my fingers.
I’ve plucked them out when something shuffles to the side from beneath the stack of bandages, drawing my attention. A piece of folded paper?
My fingers tremble, and an ominous premonition pricks at the back of my mind, causing me to fumble in my attempt to unfold it. Before I completely reveal the paper, instinct has me pressing my thumb and finger together.
As soon as silence descends, the birds no longer chirping happily outside, nor the rustling of the trees from the wind, I exhale slowly. Only now do I feel comfortable enough to open the paper.
You can remember if you want it bad enough. Don’t give up.
Don’t show this to anyone or tell a single soul. Your life is at risk if you do.
I stare at the written words that seem so familiar—and not simply because it’s my own handwriting. A wave of familiarity washes over me, giving me the impression I’ve read this before, except I don’t remember doing so. My eyes trace over each word while I silently beg for more of a clue, yet it never comes.
Confusion threaded in my tone, I murmur under my breath, “My life is at risk if I share this?”
As if I’ve conjured him from memory, the man’s voice erupts in the back of my mind.
“I’m the only one you can trust… I hate having to punish you…”
Him again. A shiver rolls through my body, spurring goose bumps along every inch of my skin. I can’t seem to evict my abuser’s voice from my head, but I’m even more determined now to try harder.
Refolding the paper and replacing it behind the bandages, I restart time and patch up my cuts. I avoid looking at my reflection in the mirror as I brush my hair, deciding to leave it unrestrained.
Then I go in search of some sunglasses.
* * *
I should’ve known better than to think he wouldn’t show.
He pulls up outside the gate just as I’m locking it behind me. He steers the car off the road and parks on the grass beside the entrance. Evidently, he’s been hard at work and already replaced the destroyed glass windows of his vehicle.
Emerging from the Chevelle, he’s dressed in a pair of black slacks, accompanied by a black polo. Those short sleeves display the swirls of ink decorating his strong, muscled arms and trailing past his wrists to end along his fingers.
I school my expression to not give away exactly how good he looks. Instead, I deflect with humor. “Back to the Man in Black look again, today, huh?”
He surveys me from head to toe, lingering for a second on my dark sunglasses before his attention lands on my hands. Dark brows descend before his words emerge, wrapped in concern and demand. “What’d you do?”
“Nothing. Just some scrapes. Goes along with the territory.” I shrug it off, insinuating it happened while working on a car.
It’s not entirely a lie, because I always end up with a cut, scrape, or busted knuckle somewhere along the line of my usual workday.
His expression clouds with suspicion, a scowl descending upon his face. “What’d you do last night?”
“Oh, you know. The usual.” I shrug offhand, my tone flippant. “Held a huge orgy. Got fucked by lots of big, burly men full of viable sperm.”