how you get the girl

eight- taylor

tw: s.a, domestic violence, panic attack

My fist hurts from pounding on the door. Repeatedly banging until my wrist is sore. As I'm about to pound my fist again, the door opens. Appears is a very exhausted Travis who looked like he did not want to deal with my shit. 

"What do you want Taylor?" He asks annoyed as ever. 

"Nevermind." I sigh, looking to go back to my car.

"You come at 11 at night, beaten to a pulp. For all I know, you could be faking it. To make me feel bad or some shit like that." He snapped. 

"It's not like that. Let me go get a really good makeup artist to make me look like I got beat up because you know what. You know what, here. Now does it look like I got beat up for real." I yell back. I lift my shirt to right under my bra. My whole stomach on display. I can't even process what I was thinking but I just knew I couldn't handle him accusing me of faking this.

My stomach was littered with bruises starting to form. I don't remember much as everything has been a blur. I don't even know how I ended up at Travis' place.

"Tay." His face softens when he sees the bruises. 

"Now do you believe me?" I sigh, giving up.

"Yeah." He mumbled, starching the back of his neck.

We are both standing here in the most awkward uncomfortable silence. 

"Where is Joe?" Travis asks, breaking the silence. 

"Not here." I answer quickly. 

"Where is he? You got beat up." 

"Not here." I repeat myself. "If you're not going to invite me in, I'm going to go." 

"Have a good night." Travis tells me as he shuts the door.

I see his lights turn off so his house is in complete darkness. I sigh and make my way back to my car. It hit me that Travis didn't want me. I couldn't face Joe. I had no one. I was alone again. 

Making my way to my car, I feel my breaths increasing with every step I take. Finally reaching the driver seat, I plopped down. Knees cradled to my chest. Every breath I took, my chest became more shallow. It hurt to breathe. It felt too much. 

I rest my head on my knees and look down at my seat. All I have to do is try to regulate my breathing. That's all I can do at the moment. Blocking out what had happened, why my body is battered, I'm alone again. 

Deep breath.

Breathe in.

Breathe through

Breathe out.

Blue skies in.

Grey skies out.

1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10.

Every breathing technique I have acquired over the year. One of these had to work. They just had to or everything is a lie.

Eventually I calmed down enough to think coherent thoughts and not act on irrational thoughts. Starting up the car, the radio was playing Teenage Dirtbag. That resurfaced any emotion and more that I thought I put to rest. It was playing on the first date with Travis. Both on our way to the winery and during the meal. We sang it on the way back as well with the windows all down and us living our best carefree lives. 

We are both approaching our thirties. Turning 29 this year, 30 the following year. Somehow it came up but we both want to go to Santorini, Greece when we're 30. No reason. Maybe because 30 sounds more adult like then 28.