The Way It Used to Be

5

He was engaged.

I kept saying it over and over in my mind, hoping the phrase might change if I just focused hard.

He was engaged. Colton was engaged. Colt.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Verne", I managed to sputter as I slid my chair back abruptly. I was up in milliseconds, heading for the sink. I clutched the farmhouse sink, the porcelain cool against my palms. "I don't think I can breathe." I bent over, pressing my forehead to the edge of the sink, hoping the porcelain would help me. Aunt Verne was behind me in seconds, her hand rubbing my back.

"He thought you weren't ever coming back," she whispered.

"I know. I know." I kept my forehead pressed to the porcelain for a few more minutes before I rose. "I'm glad he's got someone that makes him happy." It wasn't a lie. I wanted him to be happy, even if I wasn't the one that made him happy. I wanted it to be me, but if it wasn't, then I just wanted him to be happy.

Aunt Verne looked at the clock at the wall, knowing I probably needed some time to process what she had just told me. It was well past nine. She murmured something about it being late before telling me to take a bath and get some sleep. She assured me we'd sort everything out in time. One more kiss on my sore, swollen cheek, and she was leaving the kitchen and heading toward her bedroom.

Her bedroom was the only bedroom downstairs. There were two upstairs with a bathroom in between. I could be completely alone upstairs and yet still be close to her.

When I got to the top of the stairs, I dropped my bags outside my room. Bath first, then sleep. The bathroom looked the same. The claw foot tub was under the same frosted glass window. A tray of decorative soaps sat nearby along with a basket of everything I had left. All of my bath bombs, bubble baths, salts, and oils were still there. She hadn't touched any of it. I opened the cabinet near the door and pulled out a towel. Holding it to my face, I breathed in deeply. Same scent of Gain washing powders. She hadn't changed it. I dropped the towel onto the toilet lid before I started carefully peeling off my clothes. First came the shoes. Then the T-shirt. Then the shorts. Then my grey sports bra. Then my plain, white panties. I stared at myself in the mirror on the back of the door.

I really looked at myself for the first time all day. My long, brown waves hung limp on my shoulders. I hadn't brushed them all day. Instead of brushing them now, I found a hair tie in the cabinet and piled the waves on top of my head.

There were so many bruises. Bruises on my arms. My thighs. They were already turning purple. My lips were cracked and swollen. The skin around my hazel eyes was dark. My cheek was swollen with a dark purple line cutting across my skin in a diagonal pattern. I looked small in the mirror. I was small, yes; I only stood four eleven in bare feet. Now, though, I looked even smaller. I looked frail and weak. I didn't look at all like the girl who had fought off a man with a baseball bat hours earlier. I was no longer the version of myself that Colton knew.

Moving from the mirror, I turned the hot water on the bathtub. I waited until steam was rising before I cut the cold on. The tub filled, and when I finally sank into it, I gasped from the feeling of the hot water on my sore skin. I soaked for what had to have been an hour. I soaked until my skin was wrinkly. I scrubbed at my skin until it was pink. I sank under the water and laid there, opening my eyes and looking up at the ceiling with a distorted, watery view. When I sat up again, I washed my hair carefully and slowly, wringing it out and letting the excess water fall into the tub. When I pulled the plug from the drain, I drew my knees up to my chest and waited. When the water was completely gone, I stood.

My routine was very much the same as it usually was at home. I wrapped the towel around my body. I picked up my clothes from the floor and placed them in the hamper. I opened the cabinet and found an extra toothbrush, and I brushed my teeth, careful not to open the cuts on my lip again. When I was finished, I walked down the hall to my bedroom.

Like the rest of the house, it was the same. Same quilt with the Candy Land trails weaving across. Same window seat beside the bed piled high with throw pillows. Same dresser. Same picture of me and Colton on the nightstand beside the bed. Same dresser against the wall. This had been my room for ten and a half years. It was still my room. I felt safe immediately.

Once I was dry, I opened the dresser. I still had clothes that I hadn't taken tucked into the drawers. I pulled on a pair of soft, baby blue panties, making sure not to choose anything that was going to press into my thighs during the night. I chose my own Hammond Tigers T-shirt to wear, as well. It had been washed almost as many times as Colton's, and the sleeves and neck were stretched out enough to be comfortable on my arms.

Before I laid down, I checked the window, unlatching it. I knew he wouldn't come, but it was a habit I wasn't ready to shake.

I crawled into bed around eleven, and I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.

* * *

I woke up to the most god-awful banging sound.

Bang, pop, bang.

What in the hell was she doing? I pulled the pillow over my head and burrowed down under the covers. It was Saturday morning. What the hell was she doing on a Saturday morning when I had just come home and had been through hell? Was this ripping off the band aid? The way to get me up and out of bed first thing?

The god-awful assault on my ears continued and I threw back the quilt. Once my feet hit the floor, I was moving. I moved down the hallway and toward the stairs, calling out. "Aunt Verne!"

The banging continued, growing louder when I reached the stairs. I moved quickly, my body stiff and sore. I had to look worse today than I had yesterday. I felt worse.

I was rubbing my eyes when I reached the kitchen, the banging even louder. She was no where to be found. Keeping a hand to my eyes, I pushed open the back door and stepped out onto the chipped paint of the back porch. "Aunt Verne, what in the hell are you..."

When I moved my hand from my eyes, the banging had stopped. The hammer dropped to the wooden boards on the far side of the back porch, and he stood up.

Colton.