the shop, I let myself out. I then sprinted to my car and drove faster than a bat out of hell back to our apartment. When I got there, my thoughts were a jumbled mess. I didn’t know what to do; I wanted to leave, but was practically scared to death. I began to hyperventilate, still unable to completely process what I’d witnessed. I’d all but forgotten about the reason I showed up at his workplace to begin with. I needed to get the fuck out of there, but knew I had to be careful and cautious. In the span of less than an hour, my entire world crumbled around me. The man I thought I loved—a devoted, tender, giving, compassionate man—wasn’t any of those things; he was a fraud, a cruel, cold-blooded, merciless killer. The reality of his long hours at work and the mysteriousness surrounding his dad all began to make sense, and the more of the puzzle I began to piece together, the more terrified I became. I was in bed with the mafia.
Fearful he would hunt me down and kill me if I tried to run away, I knew I had to wait to devise a well thought out plan for escape, so I stayed home and waited for him to return that evening. When he finally came home, he was in clean clothes—the same ones he left that morning in—and acted like his usual loving self. It took everything in me to act like I knew nothing, but somehow I pulled it off, pretending, just like he did every day of his life. That night, I had my first nightmare since I was a young child; the sights and sounds of my fiancé torturing and murdering that man played over and over in my head. When I woke in the middle of the night to horrendous, excruciating pain and a pool of blood on my sheets, my first thought was he knew that I knew. However, when I saw him sleeping soundly next to me, I realized I was losing the baby, and I was overwhelmingly relieved.
Shooting straight up in the bed, I struggle to breathe as I take in my surroundings, my conscience retreating from the nightmare. At first, the strange setting I find myself in frightens me terribly, but my memory swiftly kicks in and I realize I’m in Madden’s room, in his bed. Inhaling deeply through my nose and out through my mouth, my body gradually stops trembling and my heart rate slows to a normal pace. Hopeful I didn’t scream out during the dream and wake Madden, I wait silently a few minutes to make sure he’s not about to barge into the room. After it appears I’m safe, I crawl out of the bed to go to the bathroom. I really would like a drink of water, but I don’t want to chance making noise and waking him up in the process.
Padding lightly across the room, I enter the bathroom and stop dead in my tracks when I see my reflection. Blood. Quite a bit of it. All over his shirt. Fuck! Gingerly, I peel the white t-shirt off of the open lacerations and drag it over my head. Gasping, I step closer to the mirror and examine the old slashes mixed with the new ones. I cringe as I see I’ve really done a number on myself this time. Deep claw marks from my nails—which I keep short for this reason—trail from my upper ribcage, around to my lower abdomen, most of them dripping with bright red blood. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. I need to wash and treat the area, but I don’t want to alert him, nor do I want to dig through his personal things to find some antiseptic. Even if I can get it cleaned up, there’s the whole issue of what clothes I’ll put on. I’ve already ruined one of his shirts, and the only clothes I have of my own is the dress I wore last night.
Feeling defeated and humiliated, I begin to quietly cry as I stare at my damaged self. I don’t know what I was thinking even entertaining the idea I could live a normal life. Even if Vincent Ricci and his family never come looking for me, I can’t escape myself.
A movement in the mirror that isn’t mine startles me. When I whip around to investigate, Madden is standing in the doorway, mouth agape, and something in-between
Fearful he would hunt me down and kill me if I tried to run away, I knew I had to wait to devise a well thought out plan for escape, so I stayed home and waited for him to return that evening. When he finally came home, he was in clean clothes—the same ones he left that morning in—and acted like his usual loving self. It took everything in me to act like I knew nothing, but somehow I pulled it off, pretending, just like he did every day of his life. That night, I had my first nightmare since I was a young child; the sights and sounds of my fiancé torturing and murdering that man played over and over in my head. When I woke in the middle of the night to horrendous, excruciating pain and a pool of blood on my sheets, my first thought was he knew that I knew. However, when I saw him sleeping soundly next to me, I realized I was losing the baby, and I was overwhelmingly relieved.
Shooting straight up in the bed, I struggle to breathe as I take in my surroundings, my conscience retreating from the nightmare. At first, the strange setting I find myself in frightens me terribly, but my memory swiftly kicks in and I realize I’m in Madden’s room, in his bed. Inhaling deeply through my nose and out through my mouth, my body gradually stops trembling and my heart rate slows to a normal pace. Hopeful I didn’t scream out during the dream and wake Madden, I wait silently a few minutes to make sure he’s not about to barge into the room. After it appears I’m safe, I crawl out of the bed to go to the bathroom. I really would like a drink of water, but I don’t want to chance making noise and waking him up in the process.
Padding lightly across the room, I enter the bathroom and stop dead in my tracks when I see my reflection. Blood. Quite a bit of it. All over his shirt. Fuck! Gingerly, I peel the white t-shirt off of the open lacerations and drag it over my head. Gasping, I step closer to the mirror and examine the old slashes mixed with the new ones. I cringe as I see I’ve really done a number on myself this time. Deep claw marks from my nails—which I keep short for this reason—trail from my upper ribcage, around to my lower abdomen, most of them dripping with bright red blood. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. I need to wash and treat the area, but I don’t want to alert him, nor do I want to dig through his personal things to find some antiseptic. Even if I can get it cleaned up, there’s the whole issue of what clothes I’ll put on. I’ve already ruined one of his shirts, and the only clothes I have of my own is the dress I wore last night.
Feeling defeated and humiliated, I begin to quietly cry as I stare at my damaged self. I don’t know what I was thinking even entertaining the idea I could live a normal life. Even if Vincent Ricci and his family never come looking for me, I can’t escape myself.
A movement in the mirror that isn’t mine startles me. When I whip around to investigate, Madden is standing in the doorway, mouth agape, and something in-between
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