She's Got It Bad

Chapter 6

                                                            "A Bruise"

            I didn’t go to school Monday. I had to wait for the swelling in my face to go down. Dennis hadn’t been too happy with how late I came in on Saturday so Sunday he beat the shit out of me. The left side of my face was swollen and bruised. It hurt like a bitch. I tried to cover it with make-up but the bruise was still too dark. People would probably just think I had gotten in another fight.

            On Tuesday I walked into school with my head ducked down. I made my way to my locker and grabbed my things. I was late again this morning so the hallways were already empty. When I turned from my locker I smacked into something solid and landed on my butt.

            “I’m so sorry,” I heard a deep voice call out. I looked up into Noah’s red face. When he saw my face his eyes widened and he dropped down beside me.

            “It’s ok,” I said trying to turn my head.

            “What happened to your face,” he asked as his finger grazed it.

            “Nothing,” I mumbled as I gathered up my things and jumped to my feet.

            “I’m not settling with that this time. What happened,” he asked as he grabbed my hand.

            “I got hit,” I said with a jerky shrug.

            “Who hit you,” he asked with a hint of anger on his face.

            “That’s not important,” I said as I tried to pull away.

            “It is to me,” he said running his fingers over the abused side of my face.

            “Don’t worry about it,” I said as I moved his hand and turned away.

            “Whoever it was must have been big to do all of this damage,” he said with narrowed eyes

            “Yes he was,” I said without thinking.

            “He,” he exclaimed with wide eyes.

            “I didn’t mean to say that! Just ignore that,” I begged.

            “How can I ignore that,” he asked as he grabbed my arms and pulled me close.

            “It’s really not important,” I said looking everywhere but at his eyes.

            “It is. How could you think someone beating the crap out of you isn’t important,” he asked quietly.

            “I’ve been through this a lot,” he said.

            “How often is a lot,” he asked.

            “At least once a week,” I said sadly.

            “Why do you let it happen,” he asked.

            “You think I have a choice,” I asked with wide eyes as my gaze snapped to his.

            “You can stop it,” he said.