I'm arguing with my boyfriend, Anthony, as he starts to get abusive. He pushes me up against the side wall of our apartment. He tells me angrily,
"Shut up, you are in so much trouble."
I argue tentatively,
"Well, you shouldn't have left a mark where my boss would see it."
He punches me in the face, and I crumple to the ground like a balled up piece of paper. He then swiftly removes his pocket knife, flips open the blade, and stabs me in the lower shoulder. I feel intense pain searing in that part of my left arm and scream. He tells me to shut up right before taking off. I hear his truck's engine turn over and know he's left me.
Just then, I see a blurry man wearing a green army jacket running towards me. I try to get up, but that arm is hurt, and I can't bear weight on it to get up. And thanks to my fibromyalgia, there's no way in hell that I can just get up without using my arms. The man helps me up, being careful not to touch my fresh injury. He asks, face etched with worry,
"Are you okay?"
There's blood on that part of my arm, I can feel the sticky wetness on my skin. It's dripping down to the ground and I shake my head,
"No...my arm."
He looks at it more closely and tells me to come with him. I agree because I'm in too much pain to fight and he gently guides me to his car. He lets me lean against the 1967 Chevy Impala as he goes to the trunk. He returns moments later with a first aid kit and starts dressing my wound.
"You should probably go to the hospital, you'll need stitches for this."
I nod my head,
"Yeah, I'll get it checked out. Thank you, by the way."
He finishes wrapping it up and says kindly,
"Glad to help. Let me take you to the hospital."
I suggest,
"Thank you, but I can take myself."
He looks at me and replies,
"You can't drive. You're hurt. Please, I insist. Let me take you."
His voice is kind as he says this, and I know I've just met him, but he helped me. I finally agree,
"Okay."
I get in his car and he takes me to the nearest hospital, which is Belfast Memorial. Once we arrive, I get out and thank him for the ride. I say,
"I can take it from here."
He shuts off the engine and gets out as well,
"I'll check you in."
I start to argue, but am still in a lot pain, so I nod my head. We walk in and the man goes straight to front desk and points at me. The receptionist shoves over a clipboard and tells him to fill it out. He takes it, unhappily, and returns to me. We sit down in two of the chairs that are lined up and he asks,
"Can you write? What's your dominant hand?"
I look down as I say,
"No. I'm left handed."
He looks at the clipboard and back at me, then grabs the pen attached to it on a string and says,
"I can do it. I'll ask you the questions and you can answer them."
I nod and he begins,
"Question 1. Name?"
I reply clearly,
"Claire Barkley."
He writes that down and then goes,
"Number?"
I ask, hesitant to give a man I don't know my damn number,
"Is that required?"
He replies,
"Yes, I'm only asking the required questions."
I sigh,
"912-327-1128."
He writes that as well and asks the next one on the list,
"Any medical conditions? If so, what?"
I look at him and answer, leg starting to shake,
"Fibromyalgia, POTS, endometriosis, plantar fasciitis, dysautonomia."
He asks,
"How do you spell that last one?"
I'm thankful he didn't give me a sympathetic look or tell me he's sorry that I have to deal with so much, and respond,
"D-y-s-a-u-t-o-n-o-m-i-a."
He writes all that and asks,
"Finally, any medications or medical devices?"
I shake my head, almost crying,
"Not anymore."
He seems confused by that and asks,
"What do you mean?"
I start to cry as I explain,
"I did. I had a beautiful German shepherd service dog for three years."
He asks me,
"Aw, what happened?"
My eyes water again as I say,
"He's dead. He..he was k-killed by my boyfriend."
The man shakes his head and says,
"I'm so sorry."
He gets up, rubs my back once, and goes to return the clipboard to the desk. I'm called back five minutes later, and we passed the time by talking about Apple. By the time I'm called to the back to get seen, I let him come too.
In the room, the doctor stitches me up. The doctor, named Dr. Amy, puts my arm in a sling to ensure that it stays immobile. I say to the man, now that things have calmed down,
"I never caught your name."
He replies,
"I'm Dean."
He asks,
"Do you want me to take you back home?"
I shudder,
"No, please, don't."
He asks me,
"What's wrong?"
I reply with the doctor still in the room,
"My b-boyfriend is, um, well...he's...abusive. He stabbed me because I accidentally got him in trouble with my boss. He...he left a mark on me where it could be seen after one of my beatings. He...killed my service dog out of pure jealousy because he t-told me that I spent too much time with Apple."
Dean sucks in a breath, and asks,
"He beats you? Like, regularly?"
I nod,
"Yeah."
The doctor says,
"I have to report this. What's his name?"
I respond,
"I'm not pressing charges."
Dean says, looking at me,
"Claire, he needs to be in jail. He's been hurting you often, and killed your life saving service dog. Isn't that a felony?"
The doctor replies immediately,
"Yes, it certainly is."
I think about what Dean said and decide,
"Okay, fuck him. His name is Cody Yale. He lives in apartment 234 in American Paradise Grove."
The doctor makes a note of this and leaves us to go report this to the cops. Dean hugs me carefully and says,
"I can keep you safe."
I say,
"Alright."
We go back to his car after I'm discharged and told that the cops have taken my boyfriend in. He tells me,
"Your boyfriend sounds terrible."
I laugh sadly,
"Yeah, he is. He's given me PTSD."
Dean remarks,
"You didn't mention that. I would've wrote it down. You deal with...a lot."
I respond,
"Yeah, he's gonna get charged I hope."
Dean nods,
"Yeah, he will. He should already have been in jail."
I nod, and he takes me to his place so that he can watch me.
