As she gets closer, I start to panic and desperately want to run. I want to hide until she goes away and forgets everything that happened. I have no idea what to say or do, so I stand there frozen.
"Tell me what happened." She already has a pretty good idea. I know she's just looking for confirmation. I can't give it to her, though. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up." I start to tell her that it is cleaned up, but I can't form any words. She brings me into the bathroom and sets me down on the toilet, looking for all my first aid stuff. I am completely unhelpful, but I can't seem to do anything but stare at her. She eventually finds some hydrogen peroxide and some cotton and dabs at my face, which is apparently still bleeding slightly. I let her take care of me, slowly becoming grateful for a calming, kind presence in the house. She talks out loud, to me, I guess, but I'm not processing anything she's saying. I hope she keeps talking, though. Her voice is comforting.
Finally, she repeats a question enough times that it catches my attention. "Have you reported him?" I shake my head vehemently, finally making eye contact. She sees the fear in my eyes and backs off, offering me her hand. "Have you talked to anyone at all?"
"Chris, I can't do that." I stand up, feeling incredibly small in front of her. I forget how much taller than me she is sometimes.
She looks relieved that I still have the ability to speak. "We've all been worried sick about you. I assumed you were busy with your boyfriend, but this is not what I had in mind."
"Don't tell them."
"If you don't want me to, I won't. But you're coming with me," she says, walking back toward my bedroom. "When is he coming back?"
"I don't know."
"Well, you're not going to be here. Let's get your things, then."
"I can't do that. He'll go ballistic."
"You won't be here for that part. That's the idea," she says, pulling a suitcase out of my closet and tossing it on the bed.
"He'll find me. And you."
"And we'll be protected. But you don't think I can leave you like this, now that I know, hmm?" She's insanely calm, and her confidence is somewhat empowering. For a moment, I help her pack my things. "Why don't you put some clothes on, love," she says, tossing me a cotton dress. She watches me for a minute, shaking her head. "How long has this been going on?"
"A few months, I guess."
"So Lindsey isn't the entire reason you've been avoiding the studio then."
"Well, yes. But for... many reasons," I say vaguely. "Christine, swear to me you won't tell Lindsey."
"I'm not swearing anything. We're going to get you out of here, get you some dinner, and then talk about what to do next."
"Lindsey will kill him." Even as I say the words, I'm not sure they're true. Old Lindsey would have killed him. My Lindsey. Does he even care that much anymore? I need him to care.
"I can't promise you that I won't beat him to it," she says, touching the side of my face. She turns back to the bed, zips up the suitcase, and walks out into the hall.
"I need some of my notebooks and things..." I say, looking around.
"Well, take one more bag, but pack quickly," she yells, heading down the stairs. I grab a bag and look around, unsure what to take. I start filling it with journals and candles and tapes, grabbing things I need to make myself feel at home. I finish packing quickly and run downstairs, following Christine to her car, where she's already loaded my other things. We silently climb inside, and I can't help but cry a little as we leave, the tears stinging as they run down my face.
